


The Mirror Lies

by Bay_Ronan_Kellner



Category: Numb3rs, White Collar
Genre: M/M, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Season/Series 06 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bay_Ronan_Kellner/pseuds/Bay_Ronan_Kellner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey can’t use his looks to manipulate a mark anymore—not after the acid attack—but he still has his charm. Here’s hoping FBI sniper Ian Edgerton falls for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Elrhiarhodan, for the gorgeous art!
> 
>  
> 
> [More art for this story!](http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/440395.html)

“Back again, huh?”

Neal nearly jumped out of his skin. He thought of himself as the type who stayed aware of his surroundings, but this man kept proving him wrong.

“Yeah.” Neal nodded at his sketchbook. “What can I say? You find a little piece of green in LA, you take advantage of it. There’s something about Maguire Gardens . . . something incongruous to Downtown, I guess.”

“And you like the juxtaposition?”

“Yeah.” Neal scooched over on his blanket. “Did you bring your sketchbook too?”

He had recognized Special Agent Ian Edgerton when he spotted him here yesterday. They had never met, but the man was a near legendary sniper and tracker for the FBI. Who knew he also liked to sketch random people sitting on the library benches?

Edgerton accepted the spot on the blanket, seating himself cross-legged next to Neal. He kept just the right amount of space between them, Neal noted. Close enough to be a little flirty, but not close enough to be creepy.

“No. I didn’t come to sketch today.”

“Oh?” Neal kept his voice cautious. He couldn’t afford to misread the cues—not with so much at stake. “Then what brought you back?”

“I was hoping to run into you again.”

So he was going to be direct about this. Thank God. That would make this con easier.

Neal took a deep breath. “Ah, I’m flattered, but I have to ask: are you blind?”

The agent cocked an eyebrow at him. “What, worried about the scars? I can hardly see them between that hoodie and those sun glasses.”

“Liar.” But he liked that Edgerton was direct about the scars too, and that they didn’t rattle him.

And yes, he was using the scars in a shameless ploy for sympathy. But he had no choice. It’s not like he had his looks to fall back on anymore.

Edgerton put a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Got a name?”

This was going almost too well. “Kevin Flanagan. You?”

“Ian Edgerton. Can I take you out to lunch, Kevin?”

Neal smiled as he closed the sketchbook. That smile, he figured, still had some charm to it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

-###-

 

Lunch led to a movie. They sat through a new spy thriller with intriguing but unlikely twists—and about ten over-the-top explosions. They came out of the theater laughing and discovered that they both preferred classic films.

The movie led to dinner . . . and dinner led to Edgerton's apartment.

Neal paused at the threshold, looking for outs. He was rolling the dice here. This man had a dangerous reputation even in the FBI—some people thought he was, well, a psychopath. Or nearly so.

But that wasn't the sense Neal got from him. Dangerous? Yes, Neal could see that. It was something about the alertness in his eyes, the way he scanned a room and the lean, wiry muscles that seemed a little too tense, a little too prepared for something to go wrong.

But that meant he could handle things if they did go wrong. He could protect Neal. That's all he was after, Neal reminded himself: protection. A place to stay where he knew he was safe, at least for a while.

"Kevin? Everything all right?"

"Fine." Neal moved inside. "I just—I wasn't sure what to expect."

Which was a lie. After spending all afternoon with the guy, this place was exactly what Neal expected. Sparse and functional. He must have weapons here—apart from the gun he carried—but if so they were safely locked up and stored out of sight.

He sensed Edgerton shifting in order to lean up against the door frame. "Do you approve?"

Neal grinned as he took a step inside and then turned around. "It's not quite my style, but it's you."

"Uh-huh." Edgerton—no, Ian; he had to start thinking of him as Ian—folded his arms across his chest. "Is that hoodie your style? Because it doesn't suit you."

"Ah, no. I'm just, ah—look, I know my wardrobe leaves something to be desired at the moment . . ."

Ian laughed as he moved inside. "If you don't critique my apartment, I won't say anything more about the hoodie. Want a beer?"

He almost said no. Kicking back with a bottle of beer was a ritual he associated too strongly with Peter. But that was ridiculous. In fact, thinking of Peter right now was ridiculous, and a luxury he couldn’t afford. “Yeah, sure.”

Ian took two bottles out of the fridge and set them on the small table that sat in the tiny area that, with a little generosity, you could maybe call a kitchen. He made no move to sit down, however. He leaned back against the counter instead and cocked his head at Neal. “Come here.”

Neal walked over to him. They stared at each other for a long moment, until Ian cupped his face and drew him in for a kiss.

And this was the test. Neal had known that it would come to this. He couldn’t expect this guy to take him in without, um, putting out.

He closed his eyes, curious to see what Ian tasted like. His lips were a little chapped, but they were soft underneath—soft and demanding, yet not forceful. It was almost as if he was giving Neal every opportunity to back away.

Neal moved closer. A kiss was a kiss, right? What did it really matter if it came from a guy or a girl? How much different could it be? But he had to convince Ian that guys were his thing, so he opened up his mouth to him.

But Ian pushed him away. Just a little, but he held them apart, apparently in order to study Neal’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Neal felt his stomach clench. Ian hadn't seemed to mind the scars—were they suddenly bothering him?

"Nothing—except that you seem so skittish."

"Skittish? No." He raised his eyebrows, hoping he looked offended.

Ian's mouth twisted in a way that was somehow not unattractive. "You know you can walk out that door any time, right?"

"Yeah, I know. Look, I'm—I'm not afraid of you. I'm just—" Neal broke off, thinking fast. Then he pointed to his scars. "This is the first time I've gone home with anyone since I got these. I'm just, ah—you know. Self-conscious."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ian fell quiet, still studying Neal. At length he shook his head. "The scars are bad. But you’re beautiful regardless—especially with those eyes of yours.”

It took a moment for the words to strike home, but then Neal raised his blue eyes directly to Ian's dark ones. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Neal smiled and pressed against Ian until their lips met again—and this time, when he opened his mouth to the man, Ian didn't push him away.

Neal melted into the kiss, without even having to think about keeping up the con. Damn. Sincere flattery always made him too easy.

 

-###-

 

“Well, well. An Eppes brother on his own? I thought the professor was finally back in town?”

Don grinned at the greeting as he walked up to the man leaning against the bar. Ian Edgerton had always had a soft spot for his little brother. “Yeah, Charlie’s just back from England. For good, this time. He and Amita are in the middle of unpacking. We can stop by the house later if you want to see him.”

Ian grinned back. “If not tonight, then soon. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, yeah. Whatever decent beer they’ve got on tap.”

They waited while the bartender filled the order. Then Ian nodded toward a table. “Want to sit down?”

“Sure.” Truth be told, Don was burning with curiosity. Ian rarely graced him with a friendly visit—and Don figured he was closer to the sniper than anyone else in the Bureau. Yet Ian had asked to meet him here this evening. Something was up.

Don looked the place over as they walked toward their table. He knew a lot of the pubs around  
Downtown Los Angeles, but this one had only opened up a couple of months ago. It had a low key feel to it that struck just the right note with him.

“So, I’ve been shacking up with a new guy for a couple of weeks,” Ian began as they took their seats.  


He spoke casually, as if the fact that he was apparently bisexual wasn’t a revelation. Hell, maybe it wasn’t. Don couldn’t pretend to be shocked.

“Okay,” he answered. “Ah, don’t think I’m going to be the one to tell Nikki.”

Ian shrugged. “She gave up on me ages ago. No, the thing is—” he broke off as his mouth twisted into a sour smile. “I think I know who my new, ah, bunkmate is. And if I’m right, the Bureau’s been after him for the past year.”

Don stared at him. “Does he know who you are?”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s just—just what? Waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

"He's terrified of something. I don't think that's an act. He might be using me, hoping I'll protect him."

"Against what? Come on, Ian. Who is the guy?"

Ian looked him in the eye. "I think it's Neal Caffrey."

The name sounded familiar, but Don couldn’t quite place it.

“A con artist who turned into a criminal informant for the Bureau,” Ian prompted. “Non-violent. He was serving out his time by working under—”

“Peter Burke, White Collar Division in New York. Yeah, I remember now. And then he disappeared, presumed to be on the run from the last year of his sentence.” He shook his head a little. “The Bureau was always putting him up as either the poster child for a reformed criminal or the poster child for why you can’t trust a CI.”

“Yup. That’s the one.”

Don crinkled his forehead. “But Caffrey—I’ve seen his pictures. You’d know if you had him. He’s like a—what do you call it?—like an Adonis.”

Ian’s face turned grim. “Not anymore. He’s lost too much weight, he’s got a buzz cut now and someone fucked up his face. Probably with acid.”

“Acid?” Don leaned back in his chair, digesting that. “So he has a reason to be scared.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“We were both sketching at Maguire Gardens. He introduced himself as Kevin Flanagan.”

“And Caffrey’s an artist, right?”

“He is. In fact, I think he’s been dumbing down his sketches for my benefit.”

“How’d you figure out it was him?”

“I saw his pictures again yesterday at the Bureau.” Ian’s mouth twisted again. “I should have seen it before. Nothing has changed those blue eyes. He’s still recognizable.”

“So you bringing him in?”

It took a moment for Ian to answer. At length he shook his head. “Can you run his prints first? Quietly?”

“Ian, are you going soft on me?” Don gave the words a teasing sound, but he was even more curious now. It seemed impossible to imagine the sniper wrapped around some con artist’s finger.

“No. I’ll throw his ass in prison myself—if he really skipped the remainder of his sentence.”

“But you don’t think he did. You think he was kidnapped or something?” Don knew that Caffrey had a history of running. But there were a few people in the Bureau who claimed that he wouldn’t have this time. One of them was Burke, and maybe that was wishful thinking on his part—he was said to have been too close to his CI. But his boss Bancroft agreed, and he wasn’t known for his sentimentality.

“Or something,” Ian agreed. “Look, he is on the run, but I think he’s much more afraid of whoever fucked up his face than he is of us.” He paused to shrug again. “I’m willing to keep an open mind on this one. And I want to see what I can get out of him before I bring him in.”

“But you need someone with enough power to give you permission to do that.”

That earned Don one more shrug—in acknowledgement this time.

Don scrubbed his face. “Fuck, Ian.”

“I can learn more from him this way. And the kid has no history of violence, remember?”

“He has a history of disappearing.”

“True. He might slip away—and it’ll be damned hard for even me to find him again. But I think it’s worth the risk.”

“He might be in danger.”

Ian nodded. “I’m sure he is. But I’m not bad at the protection thing.”

“I want extra eyes on him.”

For a moment, he thought Ian would argue. But something about Don’s expression must have changed his mind. “All right. But he’s not a fool, Eppes.”

“I know.” He stood up. “Come on. Let’s go to the office and hash this out.”

 

-###-

 

Neal knew the sound of Ian’s car now. His Ford was practical and efficient, much like the man himself. And he knew Ian’s footfall—the soft, no-energy-wasted cadence of it. He felt himself relax as he walked to the door. But he still looked out the spy hole before opening it.

“Hey.” Ian shut the door behind him and then pulled Neal into his arms. Neal returned the embrace and opened his mouth to him.

It was a gentle, sensuous kiss—the kind that almost made Neal forget that he was technically faking this whole attraction.

That was the thing about running a good con. It was so easy to believe your own lies. But if he bought his own act, chances were good that Special Agent Ian Edgerton would keep buying it too. At least for a while.

“How are you, Kevin?”

The ‘Kevin’ jarred him, as usual. That had always been the toughest part of a con; answering to a new name. But Neal didn’t let that show. “Good. How was your day? Did you meet up with that other agent you were looking for?”

“Don Eppes, yeah. We talked shop for a while—looks like we’ll be working together again for a bit. He invited me back to the family home later this week, so I can hang with his little brother too. Want to come?”

“Ah, you’re out to them?”

Ian shrugged. “I was never in the closet. It just never came up. Anyway, I don’t think he was shocked to hear that I have a boyfriend.”

Neal blinked. Boyfriend?

Ian was still holding him, and there was a real warmth in his eyes. Neal had to say something. And he didn’t exactly want to deny the boyfriend thing. “That’s—that’s good.”

“So will you come?”

“Ah, maybe?”

Ian rolled his eyes but then leaned forward and kissed Neal’s forehead. “I suppose that’s as much of a commitment as I can expect from you.”

He sounded resigned and a little amused, but not angry. Neal managed a small, self-deprecating smile as he answered. “You know I hate to have people staring at my face. Or asking what happened to it.”

“They might stare a little when they first meet you, yeah. I don’t think they’ll ask about it, but if they do, just say you don’t like to discuss it.”

Neal’s smile was real now. This was one thing he genuinely appreciated about Ian—the man never bullshitted him about his looks or pretended that no one would notice. He almost wished he could say yes to this invitation.

“Besides,” Ian continued, rubbing Neal’s shoulders now, “their Dad makes a mean brisket every Friday. And you could use some fattening up.”

Saying yes would be crazy. Talk about walking into the lion’s den—Don Eppes was up there in the FBI. And the acid scars would ensure that Neal made an impression on the guy. Eppes wouldn’t forget him.

On the other hand, the visit would be a challenge . . . .

“I’ll give you a definite maybe, okay?” He summoned up his most enticing smile for Ian, hoping the Caffrey charm still worked—even through the hideous scars.

But, in fairness, Ian didn’t seem to find them hideous. He wasn’t turned on by them or anything, thank God. He just accepted them. And he had never once asked Neal how he got them.

“All right.” Ian kissed his forehead again. “I didn’t eat with Don—got dinner ready?”

Neal grinned as they broke apart. “What am I, your 1950’s wife?”

Ian turned him around and smacked his ass. “I was thinking more along the lines of a houseboy. Come on—I’m starved.”

 

-###-

 

Peter rubbed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. Time to go home—even if there was no one to go home to.

His wife Elizabeth was in DC. She had wanted to quit the new job as soon as Neal disappeared, but Peter all but carried her onto the train at Penn Station. There was nothing she could do here. Besides, she hopped back on the Acela and returned to Brooklyn as often as she could. Sometimes even once a week.

Their dog Satchmo, meanwhile, was living with Peter's parents now. It wasn't fair to keep the pup here when Peter spent most of his time at the office.

That left Peter with an empty house.

The phone rang. Peter picked up, glad for an excuse to linger at the office. "Burke here."

"Peter Burke? This is Don Eppes with Violent Crimes in LA. We met at the—"

"Right, right." Peter didn't remember which conference they met at, actually, but he knew Eppes by reputation. He'd been a wild child back in the day, but he was a solid, reliable agent now who had outgrown his habit of firing too soon. Like Peter, he had worked his way up the chain of command; they were roughly equals. "What can I do for you?"

"I have news on Neal Caffrey."

Peter's heart stopped—or that's what it felt like. He held his breath for a good ten seconds. "Neal? Is  
he—"

"He's alive, yes. And he's okay, relatively speaking."

He was alive. Thank God. Even if the kid had been stupid enough to run—well, the worst hadn't happened. Peter had to hold onto that. "How did you find him?"

"About two weeks ago he approached an agent in Maguire Gardens. That's part of Central Library in the Financial District. He introduced himself as Kevin Flanagan and, uh—well, they hit it off. He's been living with the agent since."

"Wait. You're saying he seduced an FBI agent?" Neal might be an incorrigible flirt, but seduction schemes had never been part of his MO. And if he was on the run from the Bureau, why would he target an agent?

"Basically, yeah." Don's voice sounded cautious.

"Who's the agent?"

"Ian Edgerton."

"Edgerton!" That made no sense. Why would Neal target one of the FBI's best man hunters? And in a seduction scheme?

Once Neal committed to a con like that . . . well, okay. Maybe Peter could see him choosing another man as the mark. At least if the stakes were high enough. But Edgerton? The guy was supposedly a borderline psychopath. Everyone knew he enjoyed being a sniper too much—including Neal.

"Yeah. We're pretty sure Caffrey knew who he was when he approached him."

"He did."

Peter remembered a conversation—it must have been a year and a half ago—when he, Neal and Diana were in the van. Diana was talking about Edgerton and just how good he was. Neal, being Neal, took the fact that the FBI had never sent the guy after him as a personal insult. He wasn't mollified until Peter assured him that the Bureau only sicced Edgerton on violent criminals.

He should have said that Edgerton only chose to pursue violent criminals. The guy had the luxury of selecting his own cases.

Neal must have fished for information on the man, because a couple of days later he pointed out that Edgerton had gone after a fugitive stock broker or two. So he was back to being insulted. He also made some comment about how Edgerton looked a little scary—but in a completely different way than he’d expected.

Neal was good with faces. He would know Edgerton if he saw him in person. This must have been intentional.

"Edgerton didn't figure out who Neal was until yesterday,” Don was saying. “He came to me today."

Peter swallowed. Neal was alive—that was the most important fact so far. "Where is Neal now?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "He's still with Edgerton."

"You haven't brought him in?"

"No. We have eyes on him now, but Edgerton thinks we'll get more out of Caffrey if he continues to play along. He doesn't want to spook the kid; he wants to find out what happened to him over this past year."

"So you're not assuming Neal ran."

"No. We're keeping an open mind on that right now." There was another pause. "Look, we think he chose Edgerton because he's looking for protection. Protection from something worse than the FBI."

Peter chewed on that before forcing himself to ask the next logical question. "You said Neal was okay, relatively speaking."

"It looks like someone splattered his face with acid."

Peter sucked in a lungful of air. "God."

"Yeah. And he's lost a lot of weight. Look, Edgerton is going to keep him safe. I want to give them a little space; see if Neal will open up to him. But not too much space—like I said, we have eyes on him now."

"If Neal figures that out, he really will run."

"We decided to take that chance."

Damn. Eppes was probably right—bring Neal in too soon, before he was ready, and he would clam up no matter how the Bureau threatened or cajoled . . . and no matter what the Bureau put him through.

But how safe could Neal be with a guy like Ian Edgerton?

"I'm coming out to LA." The words were out of Peter's mouth before he gave himself a chance to reconsider.

"Ah, you think that's a good idea? You won't be able to make contact with him. We've got to let Ian do his thing."

"Look, you're using my CI in what amounts to a honey trap—"

"Hey, Caffrey approached Ian, not the other way around. He conned his way into Ian's bed before Ian had any idea who he was."

He had a point. Peter couldn’t pretend righteous indignation on Neal's behalf.

"Look, you want to come out here?" Eppes continued. "All right. In fact, we could use your insights on Caffrey. But you can't interfere—at least not until we bring him in."

"Fine." Peter's voice was tight as he answered, but he knew this wasn't the time to get into a pissing contest with Eppes. "Thanks for calling. I'll be on a plane by tomorrow."

He hung up the phone and, for a long moment, just stared at it. Acid—who the hell had hurt Neal like that? And why?

And once Neal escaped from whoever it was, why hadn't he come to him?


	2. Chapter 2

Ian wrapped his arms around Neal as they settled down on the couch after dinner. Neal didn’t resist. Hell, he nudged his way closer.

This had become a nightly ritual, even though there was no TV to watch as they cuddled there. Most guys, Ian assumed, would consider that an oversight, but Neal didn’t seem to mind. Usually he wanted to talk instead. His favorite subjects ranged from art, to music, to history, to gourmet food and sometimes even to Ian’s work with the Bureau. In fact, that last was a frequent topic. 

At first Ian had figured that his new boyfriend had a thing for men with a badge. But now that he knew Neal’s history—well, Neal probably kept hoping to hear some word about the agents he had worked with.

When Neal finally grew quiet, he usually wanted to watch one of the classic films they both loved. The lack of a television still didn’t trouble him. He would just snuggle closer, till they were practically in the same skin—the concept of personal space seemed to have little meaning for Caffrey—and they would share a tablet.

“So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.” Neal twisted a little so that he could look up at Ian.

“Oh yeah?” Ian stroked his hair. The buzz cut didn’t do Caffrey justice, but it wasn’t terrible either.  


“It’s about this place. It’s a bit—ah, barebones.”

“It is,” Ian agreed. “I kind of like it that way.”

“Ah.”

Ian grinned. “I take it you don’t agree?”

“We could set up easels in that spot over there; the light is halfway decent—and, you know. Some book shelves, a wine rack—one that we actually stock, I mean.”

“You know that you’re lucky this isn’t just a hotel room, right? I never planned on having an apartment out west. I mean, my life fits in a backpack.”

Neal made a face. “Please don’t say that like it’s an accomplishment.” He paused as a new thought seemed to strike him. “Wait, what do you have back east, at Quantico?”

“A room.”

“A room?”

“Yes.”

“Just a room?”

“Just a room.”

“But Quantico’s your main home.”

Ian shrugged. “I’m only there for a couple of months out of each year now.”

Neal digested that. “When will you head back?”

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to say how long this current case with Eppes will last. I don’t need to be back east until early fall.”

“And, ah—any chance of you taking me with you?”

Ian was so surprised that he stopped stroking Neal’s hair. “You want to come to Quantico?”

Neal looked surprised. Damn, he was a good actor. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“Not everyone wants to hang out at a Marine base or the FBI Academy. And you haven’t exactly jumped at the chance to meet my friends or co-workers.”

“Sometimes I think you have more of the latter than the former.” Neal nudged him. “You haven’t mentioned many friends, other than the Eppes.”

Ian felt his mouth twist into a sour smile. “Having fun throwing stones in your glass house?”

“All right.” Neal blushed. “I’ve been, ah, out of touch with my friends. But that’s—that’s because of the scars. I’m not ready for my friends to see them.”

So Neal was using the scars for a sympathy play. Ian was impressed. Oh, there was probably some truth to his words—but the scars weren’t the only reason he was hiding from everyone, friend and enemy alike.

“I guess it’s too early to talk about this.” Neal smiled up at him. “Don’t mind me.”

Ian started stroking him again. “No, it’s not too early. I kind of like knowing that you intend to stick around. I feel like I might be a departure from your usual type, though.”

“You are.” He broke into what looked like a warm and genuine smile. “I’m not usually into the deer-hunting survivalist type who only needs a backpack and a rifle. I like cities.”

“I’m here in LA, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. But you’re not settled yet—not really. And I’ve reached the point where I want to be.”

The words sounded honest. Ian was willing, for now, to accept them at face value. And they presented an interesting challenge. If Neal really hadn’t run—and if the kid was allowed to serve out his sentence without more prison time—building a life with him would be challenging, but not impossible.

Did Ian want a life like that? So far, considering his reputation, Neal had been surprisingly low maintenance. That was partly because he was so afraid of whoever was after him—he had a reason to lay low. But if Ian and Don managed to eliminate that threat? Hard to say.

From what Ian had heard, Neal had been a problematic CI for Burke. Everyone knew about Burke’s affection for him—and everyone knew how ridiculously successful their partnership had been when it came to closing cases—but everyone also knew that Neal had trouble coloring within the lines. 

But that wouldn’t be a problem for Ian. If Neal did something deserving of prison, he would personally put his ass back behind bars, lover or not.

That assumed, of course, that Neal would have any interest in Ian once he no longer needed his protection. Fuck it. Charlie would tell him that there were too many variables at present—and he'd be right. 

“What are you thinking?” Neal’s words interrupted his thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, I was thinking you’re right—it’s too early to talk about where we’ll both be this fall. But I’m open to possibilities.”

Neal grinned and widened those pretty blue eyes of his. “Are you open to the wine rack?”

Ian laughed. “We’ll see.”

 

-###-

 

Neal couldn’t fall asleep that night. Was he frightened? No. Not much, anyway—at least not at the moment. He felt safe with Ian. No one was infallible, but Neal liked his odds as long as the sniper was around.

Granted, the man wasn’t a fool. Sooner or later he would put the pieces together and realize that he’d been sleeping with a wanted criminal. Neal could brazen it out at the Eppes house on Friday as the nonentity Kevin Flanagan. He could brazen it out at Quantico too—which was, in fairness, the last place anyone would look for him. But once Ian figured out what was going on, Neal would have to make a choice.

He swallowed. If he stuck around and allowed Ian to arrest him—and Ian would arrest him; Neal wasn’t stupid enough to think that the guy would get sentimental about him—then his only chance at freedom involved telling the whole truth. But that meant giving evidence against the man who kidnapped him . . . a man who had already threatened to target Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie and even Satchmo if Neal tried. Could the Bureau protect them all?

Peter. God, what did he think about Neal now? There was no way to pump Ian for information about that, even assuming the man paid attention to rumors about an over-attached handler and his wayward CI.

And what would Peter think if he saw Neal now? Would he draw back in disgust at the ugly maroon blotches on his face, where the acid had eaten his skin away?

No. Peter would never do that. Peter knew how to look beneath the surface. Hell, he’d never been overly impressed by Neal’s looks anyway. Neal still remembered Peter telling him that he looked like a cartoon.

But he wouldn’t be indifferent to the scars the way Ian was. If he ever learned the truth, the scars would always remind Peter of the hell Neal had gone through.

Neal shook himself. He had gotten this far by not thinking about Peter. Thinking about him didn’t help—it only made matters worse. Neal couldn’t afford to agonize over whether he was too much the con and too little the man right now.

He was conning Ian; that was true. But he did genuinely like the guy—and that counted for something, right? But was he putting Ian in danger by not telling him the truth? Maybe. But Ian knew how to take care of himself.

Neal rolled over and opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness. Then he stared at his lover, who was rolled over facing the wall on the other side of the bed. Ian approved of couch-cuddling, but he needed his space when he was trying to sleep.

This was the best Neal could do right now. He couldn’t run to the FBI, but he could take refuge with one of its agents. Peter might not be proud of him, exactly, if he knew the whole story—but hopefully he wouldn’t be too ashamed.

 

-###-

 

“These are the pictures we have so far.” Don brought them up on the screen and turned to look at Burke.

The man turned white. “Jesus.”

Don understood the reaction. The whole left side of Caffrey’s face—and a little bit of the right—was obscured by the dark, splotchy scars. There might be some kind of reconstructive surgery he could go through, but nothing would turn him back into the Adonis he had once been.

Burke looked away from the images—not at Don, but at Ian, who was lounging against the wall of Don’s office, like a panther taking his ease. “And you have no idea who did this?”

“Not yet,” Ian admitted. “As Don told you, Neal turned up in Maguire Gardens about two weeks ago. We’ve been trying to work backward from there, find out where he was living, where he bought food—you know the deal. Best we can figure, he found someplace to hide out in a Latino neighborhood called Boyle Heights.”

“We think he was responsible for some pick-pocketing there,” Don added. “Someone relieved a few men of their cash, but mailed them back whatever else was in their wallets.”

Burke grunted. “That sounds like Neal. You’re not going to—”

Don cut him off. “Believe me, those thefts are the least of our worries.”

“Have you figured out how long he was in Boyle Heights?”

“At least a month,” Ian answered. “But we don’t know where he was before that.”

“I see.” Burke looked Ian in the eye. “How is he?”

Ian chewed on his words before answering. “Skittish whenever I’m about to leave or just getting home. He’s scared to be alone. But apart from that . . .” He shrugged. “He’s talkative and animated. He laughs, he’s playful and, scars or not, he’s got more charm than anyone has a right to.”

“Are the scars we see here the worst of it?” Burke’s voice was tight.

Ian nodded. “He’s too skinny—he was underfed for a while, I think—but there’s no other signs of abuse on his body.”

Don watched as Burke nodded. The man still wasn’t convinced that Caffrey was okay, but that was to be expected.

And apparently the rumors were true: judging by how fast Burke had made it to LA, and by the way he hadn’t bothered to sleep or change before barging into the FBI offices on Wilshire, he genuinely cared for Caffrey. He was probably some kind of father figure to the kid. 

Well, Don didn’t think any less of him for that. He’d rather deal with someone who was too attached to his CI than with someone who viewed his CI as nothing more than a disposable tool.

Ian must have noticed the man’s concern as well, because his eyes softened. “Look, Agent Burke, I think he’s dealing with whatever hell he went through. Not perfectly—he hates to see himself in a mirror now and he cringes when people stare at him. But long term? I don’t think those scars are going to ruin his life.”

Burke didn’t bother to disguise his relief. “Neal was always resilient.”

“He seems to be,” Ian agreed. “It’s one of the things I admire about him.”

There was an awkward pause as Burke stared at him. Then he turned back to Don. “Would you mind if Agent Edgerton and I had a word?”

Don looked back and forth between the two men. He had a feeling that Burke was about to subject Ian to an interrogation regarding his intentions toward Neal. That was a conversation Don wanted no part of.

“Sure,” he answered. “I’ll go get myself some coffee.”

 

-###-

 

Peter took a moment to study Edgerton. He was a good looking man, he supposed, with one of those faces that could pass for any number of ethnicities. But presumably Neal hadn't selected him for his looks. He chose this guy in order to secure protection.

By that criteria, Neal had done well for himself. Ian was an expert sniper—the third best shot in the FBI. And he was no slouch when it came to hand-to-hand combat, with a pocketful of tricks that had served him well against both perps and corrupt prison guards. So Peter could understand Neal feeling safe with the guy.

Whether he really was safe was another question. Peter believed that Edgerton would do anything in his power to protect Neal from whoever had tortured him. But how would he handle Neal's shenanigans in the meanwhile? And what would happen if he lost his temper with Neal?

That wasn't fair. Peter had no reason to believe that Edgerton would abuse a significant other or anyone else under his protection. Nonetheless, considering the guy's dangerous reputation, Peter refused to dismiss his concerns.

Edgerton, meanwhile, seemed to be in no rush to start this conversation. He was giving Peter the same measuring look that Peter was giving him.

Well, one of them had to begin talking. And Peter might as well come straight to the point. "Do you have the patience to deal with Neal?"

Edgerton cocked an eyebrow at him. "Deal with him? He's pretty low maintenance, so far."

Peter gave him a look of disbelief.

That drew a grin from the sniper. "I've heard he has a rough time sticking to the straight and narrow. But he's content to stay out of trouble—at least for now."

What did that mean? That Neal was cowed? 

"Do you care for him?" Damn. He hadn't meant to ask that. He sounded like an over-protective father.

But Edgerton took the question in stride. "Yes. I don't know how he feels about me, but I'm in this for real."

"Even though he's been lying to you?"

"Even so." He paused. "But that won't stop me from putting him behind bars if necessary. I don't think he willingly skipped out on his sentence, but if it turns out I'm wrong . . . ." He let the words trail off with a shrug. 

“Assuming he was kidnapped, do you know why he didn’t come straight to the Bureau when he escaped? Or was cut loose?” He left the rest unspoken, but he was sure Edgerton heard the words in his head: Do you know why he didn’t come to me?

“No.” Edgerton shook his head. “Right now, all I can do is play this out and see if he opens up. If he doesn’t—well, you know that there will be a long line of people at the Bureau ready to assume the worst. They’ll say he wasn’t kidnapped; he just got himself mixed up with the wrong people after he ran.”

Peter felt his throat close in. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

Ian pulled into his spot with a thoughtful frown, trying to puzzle out the enigma that was Neal Caffrey. He was a genius; Burke had confirmed that. Not that Ian hadn't figured it out for himself.

He wasn’t a savant, like the professor. The range of Neal’s expertise was stunning and almost scary. Forgery, cons, sleights of hand and burglary—all rounded off with a formidable knowledge of multiple subjects. That was a different kind of genius than Charlie’s mathematical voodoo, but no less intimidating. 

No wonder he had kept the FBI on its toes for so long.

Ian shook his head as he climbed out of the car. From what he gathered, Neal had some of the same weaknesses as Charlie—a certain charming immaturity, a certain entrenched belief that the world should revolve around him. Charlie had mostly outgrown both. Had Neal?

He paused when he reached his front door. Usually Neal was waiting to open it for him. He might be out, of course. He forced himself to leave the apartment every now and then, as if he needed to prove that he wasn't afraid of the outside world. 

If he had left, though, an agent should have eyes on him. He might just be asleep, but that wasn’t likely. He had a rough time sleeping alone—he was too skittish.

Ian pulled out his gun and knocked with his free hand. “Kevin?" It felt strange to call him that, now that he knew his real identity, but he had to keep up the pretense. "You okay in there?”

“Come on in, Ian. The door’s unlocked.”

That was Neal’s voice, but Ian had never heard him take such a flippant tone. “Kevin, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just no point in locking it if the Bureau’s going to be watching over us anyway.”

Ian swore under his breath and then opened the door. Neal was stretched out on the sofa, sketching, but Ian made sure the room and the whole damned place was clear before he put his gun away.

Neal didn’t even bother reacting. He was pretending to be absorbed by his sketch. But the tightness in his jaw let Ian know just how furious he was.

Little bastard. As if he was the one who had a right to be furious. But Ian wasn’t about to lose his temper. Hell, this is what he wanted: everything out in the open.

“So when did you figure out that I knew who you really are?”

“This afternoon.” Neal held up his sketch. It was a near perfect likeness of Special Agent Liz Warner, a long-standing member on Don’s old team.

Ian just stood there, waiting for him to explain.

“This woman was in our 7-Eleven. Something about her was familiar—you don’t forget a face like hers. She’s like you. Sort of . . . .” His voice trailed off as he seemed to grope for the right words.

Ian grunted as he took a seat on the arm of the couch, near Neal’s bare feet. “Exotic? Multi-ethnic?”

“I don’t think of you as exotic.” Neal’s voice softened a bit. Maybe some of his fury was fading. “That’s too—that word depends too much on a person’s frame of reference. But you’re striking. And so is she.” 

“Striking?” He managed a small smile. “I suppose I can live with that.”

“I know she’s an agent, Ian. I saw her once at a conference—that’s why she seemed familiar. And she tried to shadow me when I left, as if to make sure I was going straight back to our apartment.”

Ian didn’t bother to correct the ‘our.’ Truth be told, even after only two weeks and change, this place had begun to feel like it was as much Neal’s as his own. And something would be lacking if Neal couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stay.

Neal shrugged. “Other things added up too. So I figured out that you knew who I was and that the FBI was watching me to keep me from bolting.” His voice tightened again. “How long have you known?”

“Only for a few days.”

Neal looked half hopeful and half skeptical. “You didn’t know from the start? Me spotting you at Maguire Gardens really was a coincidence?”

“It was from my end. I started this relationship in good faith.”

That arrow struck deep. Neal turned bright red as he set the sketch aside. “So what now?”

Ian stared at him, considering. “It’s Friday. We’re expected at the Eppes. Go take a shower and get dressed.”

“I don’t have any decent clothes here.”

“You can borrow some of mine.”

“So . . . we’re really going there instead of to the Bureau?”

“For now.”

Neal fell quiet. After a minute or so, he tried for a smile. “Do I get points for not trying to run today?”

Ian leaned toward him, narrowing his eyes. “You think you could have run with our eyes on you?”

“Possibly. I’ve been known to disappear from some tight spaces.” 

“I’ve heard that.” Ian couldn’t help but smile again.

Neal summoned up a cocky shrug. “You sure you want to trust me alone in the shower? Never know when I might take off.”

It was tempting. Those blue eyes of his were impossibly enticing. But now wasn’t the time. Besides, they had a few things to straighten out.

Ian gave him a level look. “Is this still part of your con?”

Neal stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. “How much of that con have you figured out?”

“That you’re running from something—something that scares you more than the Bureau. That you conned your way into my bed in order to make sure I’d protect you.” 

“That’s—somewhat accurate.” He swung his legs down and sat up.

“Neal, I’ll protect you even if you stop sleeping with me.”

“I suppose that’s good to know.” Neal smiled a little. “But the thing about a con is—it’s never all a lie.” He looked up and studied Ian, as if trying to gauge his reaction. “Are you done with me? With us?”

“No.” Ian couldn’t see a point to lying about that.

“I’m glad. I don’t want to be done.” 

There was no guile in his voice. Ian told himself that didn’t mean anything, that it could be part of Neal’s act. But he had no reason for the act now. “Me either. But if we’re not going to be late, you better take that shower.”

“Okay.” He stood up and headed for the bathroom.

“Neal?”

He turned around. “Yes?”

“Peter Burke is here in LA. Don and I filled him in.”

Neal opened his mouth to say something, but abruptly shut it again. He leaned back against the wall and seemed to shrink into himself. “Will Peter be there tonight?”

“At this point, I think it would be a good idea.”

“Fine.” He ran his hand through his buzz cut—probably a subconscious gesture from back when that black hair was considerably longer. “You, ah, don’t have to worry. I was only teasing before—I won’t try to run.”

“Good. But no points for that.” Ian gave him a look. “You’re smart enough to know that running would be your worst move right now.”

 

-###-

 

Neal settled into the shotgun seat of the Ford and closed his eyes. It would be a long drive to Pasadena. It would also be a quiet ride. Ian didn’t seem to want to talk any more than he did.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his brain fixated on the fact that Peter had known his whereabouts for a couple of days now. But he hadn’t approached Neal. Why not? Was he content to let Eppes and Ian handle him? Or was it killing him to sit on the sidelines?

If it came to Neal testifying, Peter would be in danger. So would Elizabeth, Mozzie and even Satchmo. So Neal was back to his original question: could the Bureau protect them all?

On some level, he must believe that it could. Otherwise he would have walked fast in the opposite direction when he first spotted Edgerton. And if he did believe that—well, then he couldn’t hide anything. He would tell the whole story tonight, without embellishment or artful editing.

He opened his eyes and stared out the window, feeling a measure of peace. He’d grown tired of running years ago. He didn’t think he was lying to himself about that. Peter had taught him too well what it meant to settle down.

But there was one last question, of course. Would the Bureau give him that chance? 

 

-###-

 

"Neal?" Ian shook him gently. "We're here."

Neal seemed to snap awake, sitting straight up and automatically reaching to adjust his shirt. "How do I look?"

He wasn't asking about the clothes. He had already found about a zillion faults with everything hanging in Ian’s closet. He had finally settled, without much grace, on borrowing a white button down and khakis. Even Neal could live with those, so he really wanted to know how his face looked.

"Not nearly as bad as you think." Ian leaned over to brush his lips lightly against Neal's. "They'll stare at first—”

“And they’ll try to hide that they’re staring—”

“Right,” Ian agreed. “But they'll get used to the scars fast enough. Besides, you’ll use them to get everyone’s sympathy.”

Neal smiled a little. “You’re right. I will.”

“Uh-huh. I give you half an hour before all the civilians are eating out of your hands.”

“Even the federal prosecutor? The one you said was married to Don?”

Ian shook his head. “No. I’m not counting Robin as a civilian. Just Alan Eppes—that’s Don and Charlie’s father—Charlie and his wife Amita. And their friend Larry, if he’s there.”

“But not you, Don, Robin or Peter.” Neal let out a melodramatic sigh. “That only gives me half the crowd.”

“Well, that half has a lot of influence over the rest of us.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “Even over you?”

“What can I tell you?” Ian shrugged. “I have a soft spot for the professor.”

“And suddenly I hate him.”

“Don’t.” He shook his head. “I’ve just got a thing for geniuses, apparently. And he’s safely straight.”

Neal snorted. “So am I.”

 

-###-

 

“I think this is them.” Don peered out the front door, which he had left wide open. “Yeah, that’s Ian’s car.”

He stood there, waiting to greet the newcomers. Everyone else started taking their seats around the table or carrying food in from the kitchen.

Everyone but Peter Burke. He walked over to Don. They watched together as Ian and Neal made their way up the front path, hand in hand. Peter wasn’t saying a word, but a sidelong glance gave Don a glimpse of tense muscles and an expression that was half apprehensive and half relieved—as if Peter hadn’t really believed, until this moment, that Neal was alive and okay.

“Hey, Don,” Ian said as they came up to the door. “This is Neal Caffrey. Neal, Don Eppes.”

They shook hands, but Neal was staring at Peter. Don and Ian exchanged glances. Then both stepped aside to let the two men walk toward each other.

“Peter, I—”

Neal broke off as Peter wrapped him in a bear hug. Neal stiffened for just a moment before responding in kind.

Don looked toward Ian again, but the sniper had a hug of his own to contend with—from Charlie. Don grinned. His nerdy little brother had successfully waylaid the man who could take down multiple combatants single-handed.

“I’m so glad to see you, Ian.” 

“Yeah, it’s been way too long,” Ian said as they broke apart. “Only twice since your wedding—oh wait. I wasn’t at your wedding.”

Charlie groaned. “You’re never going to let that go, are you? I would have invited you if I knew you were so close by. It was a last minute thing. And, you know, Colby was there too, and—”

“Things would have been awkward,” Ian finished for him, grinning. “Don’t worry, Professor. But, yeah. I will hold this over your head forever.”

Ian allowed Charlie to drag him inside as they continued talking. Don stayed behind long enough to close and lock the door, but then he moved toward the table to give Peter and Neal some privacy.

 

-###-

 

Neal was here. He was safe—worse for the wear, maybe, but safe. That mattered more than anything else.

“I didn’t run.” The words were muffled; Neal was speaking into his shoulder.

Peter closed his eyes tight, trying to shut out the image of those scars. God, the pain Neal must have been in. What bastard had done that? “I know.”

Neal made no move to break apart—instead he tightened his hold on Peter. “I thought about it. When they refused to shorten my sentence. But I didn’t.”

“It’s okay, Neal. I know.”

“Can you stand to look at me?” Neal pushed apart—just a little.

Peter swallowed and opened his eyes again. He knew he had to be completely honest. Neal would pick up on even the slightest hesitancy. “Yes. The scars—they’re going to take some getting used to. But they don’t matter, Neal. All that matters is that you’re here. Alive.”

“Oh, they matter.” Neal managed a small smile. “But I’m used to them now, I suppose. And I’m learning how to use them.”

“Use them?” Peter grunted. Of course Neal would find a way to turn even these horrific acid scars to his advantage. But that was good—it proved just how resilient he was. Peter put his hands on Neal’s shoulders. “I’m so glad to see you.”

That drew a real smile from him. “Same here.” He took a deep breath. “So, I have to tell you what happened. Where do you—how do you want to do this?”

“Not yet. We all agreed that we’d have dinner first, like civilized people.” Peter shifted so he could put an arm around Neal’s shoulder and walk him into the dining room. “Come on, let’s eat.”


	4. Chapter 4

They did stare. Not openly, but they all stole furtive glances at Neal’s face. Neal pretended not to notice since, as Ian pointed out, his goal was to garner sympathy.

Professor Charles Eppes spent the least time staring at Neal. He seemed to get used to the scars quickly and to disregard them. Neal was almost annoyed at that, because it made it easier to like the man. But he didn’t want to like the other genius that Ian had a thing for.

Since it was Friday night, it was a Sabbath or ‘Shabbat’ dinner. Sort of. Neal had impersonated enough Jews to know what was going on when Don lit the candles and muttered the blessing. His dad covered and closed his eyes during it, and so did most of the gentiles around the table, including Peter and even Ian. But Charlie, Neal noticed, looked on with a sort of respectful skepticism.

No, Neal hadn’t closed his eyes either. He’d been peeking through his fingers.

There was no other nod to religion—not even Kiddush or an off-key round of Shalom Aleichem. Don, Neal gathered, was the only observant (or semi-observant) member of the family, and he wasn’t in anyone’s face about it. So after the candle-lighting, everyone applied themselves to the food and conversation.

Neal ended sitting in between Ian and Peter. Don Eppes and his wife Robin—who had a lean, no nonsense look to her that was perfect for a federal prosecutor—were opposite him. Charlie, meanwhile, had snagged a corner spot next to Ian. Neal grit his teeth at that.

Charlie’s wife Amita, who looked pregnant, sat on his other side. Neal resolved not to congratulate her until he was sure she was with child; he’d learned the hard way never to assume.

That left the patriarch Alan Eppes and Special Agent Liz Warner—she was the one whose face Neal remembered so vividly. Charlie’s friend Larry Fleinhardt—who sounded like a non-criminal, professorial version of Mozzie, Neal’s partner in crime—hadn’t made it yet but might drop in later. 

The conversation was general at first. It was mostly shop talk, since nearly everyone was involved with the Bureau in one way or another. Even Alan Eppes had consulted on a case or two as a city planner. And Charlie and Amita were regular consultants, at least before they’d ended up living in England longer than they had anticipated. They both seemed ready to take up the consulting gig again in addition to their professorships. 

Neal gradually joined in the conversation as Peter gave the details on a couple of their closed cases. He chose only safe cases, Neal noticed—cases where none of Neal’s ‘shenanigans’ had come into play. They laughed together as they remembered some ludicrous situations and tight calls. That laughter proved infectious, and Neal thought maybe he was winning good will from around the table.

Ian rested his hand on Neal’s back as the conversation continued. That helped relax Neal almost as much as the glass of red in front of him. Peter wasn’t ashamed of him as a CI, and Ian wasn’t ashamed of him as a boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Strange as it sounded, that was the right word.

The fact that Neal wasn’t gay didn’t matter. Maybe he was bi on some level. Or maybe he really was the opportunistic bastard he sometimes thought lurked just beneath the surface of his skin. He pictured that bastard version of himself bleeding through the holes the acid had burned into him . . . .

Neal rolled his eyes at his own hyperactive imagination. No one was getting hurt here. He might be using Ian a little, but he wanted to make him happy in return. And he genuinely valued him. Ian meant safety, Ian meant protection, Ian meant someone he could always talk about art with . . . and while the sex wasn’t as adventurous as Neal liked, it was pretty damn good. 

A sniper like Ian didn’t need adventure in bed. Neal understood that, the same way he understood that if Ian ever cuffed him, it wouldn’t be to a bedpost. It would only be to arrest him.

There would be no gray areas with Ian. He wasn’t like Peter. Neal could coax Peter into those gray areas, make him see that sometimes his shenanigans were necessary or at least not too harmful or, as a last resort, forgivable. But Ian . . . .

It’s not that Ian lacked gray areas. In fact, a case that Charlie started talking about proved that he had some. When Charlie had temporarily lost his clearance with the FBI for some reason—the professor didn’t elaborate—Ian went to him anyway for help on a case.

But maybe that wasn’t really a gray area. Don’s life had been at risk; Ian couldn’t afford to ignore a source of help just because some upper bureaucrats currently held that source in disfavor. End of story. 

So would Ian understand what Neal had done to keep Peter out of prison? Maybe. But he wouldn’t put Neal stealing a painting out of spite or stealing gold to help out a friend in need in the same category. No, the cuffs would come out instead, and they’d be talking about conjugal visits.

Some part of Neal liked that about Ian. Not the daredevil part of him—no, this was something different. There was a weird sort of security in knowing that he couldn’t pull any stunts with his lover.

“Neal?”

He shook himself as he looked across the table at Don. What was wrong with him? “I’m sorry, Agent Eppes. I was a million miles away.” He bestowed his most ingratiating smile on the agent.

Don gave him a half smile in return. “That’s all right. And you can call me Don. I just asked—are you ready to talk about what happened to you?”

Neal swallowed, but managed a nod.

“You want to talk here?” Don continued. “It might be easier than at the Bureau.”

“Yes.” Neal picked up his wine glass and stared at the maroon liquid inside, watching the way the light glinted off of it. The whole table was silent now, he realized. “Yes, I’d rather talk here.”

Alan Eppes stood up and cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m going to need some help cleaning up in the kitchen. Charlie? Amita?”

They both nodded and scampered out of their seats to help him. Soon the room was clear of civilians. 

“So,” Neal began. “Is this on record?”

“No,” Robin answered. “This isn’t a formal interrogation—it’s off the books for now. And you’re not under arrest. Not yet.”

Would arrest be coming soon? This could go either way. And, in either case, something would have to be done about the remainder of his sentence. Commutation was a distant dream now, but was he facing prison time? Maybe could he strike a deal that left him serving out his time by working with Peter again.

“But I’m back in custody?”

“Yeah.” Ian kept rubbing his back. “Tell us what happened, Neal, and we’ll go from there.”

Don nodded. “But you better tell us straight off: did you kill or otherwise seriously harm anyone?”

“No.” Neal took a deep breath. “But I saw someone killed once, and that’s relevant to this case. I had no idea it was going to happen. And I was too afraid to report it.”

Don exchanged glances with everyone who was left at the table. At length he sighed. “All right. This is still unofficial. Let’s hear the whole story.”

The whole story? Shouldn’t he hold back? That was usually the best way of dealing with the feds. Keep an ace in your pocket to bargain with. 

“Just start with the day you disappeared,” Don said. His voice was casual and unthreatening.

Neal wasn’t going to hold back. He had already decided that, hadn’t he? 

He shook his head at Don. “No. The story doesn’t start there. It starts about ten years ago—before Peter caught me for the first time.” He paused to take a sip from the glass. “It starts when I, along with two other criminals—Matthew Keller and a man named Bryan Santiago—agreed to work together on an easy three-man job.”

 

-####-

 

Ian kept rubbing Neal’s back as he talked. He could picture Neal as he must have been—young, talented, and excited to work with a more experienced con like Keller. Neal described him as a first-class-mind hidden behind an unpretentious and possibly adopted Brooklyn accent.

The three man job went smoothly. It involved not only a con, but some upper-story work. Both were perfect for Neal. Ian had already experienced his mastery of deception. And Neal was a monkey of a climber, according to Peter. Ian added that to his mental list of Neal's skills.

But after the job, things went wrong. Santiago gave Keller a reason to doubt him—some stupid fear about having lost his passport back inside. He reached for his wallet to check, and Keller shot and killed him. Right in front of Neal. 

Unless this was an act, Neal’s was still shocked over that. Ten years might have gone by, but his hands were shaking as he told the story.

“Okay, Neal.” Don leaned forward, but his voice was still calm. “Take a deep breath. Now tell me how Santiago’s murder is connected to your disappearance.”

Ian could see Neal’s pulse throbbing in his neck as he answered. “Bryan’s brother is the one who kidnapped me. He holds me responsible for Bryan’s death too.”

 

-###-

 

Michael Santiago. Peter wasn’t familiar with the name, but apparently he operated here in LA. The guy had watched Neal from a distance until he found just the right moment. A moment when it looked like Neal had every reason to run.

Peter’s stomach dropped. Neal’s estrangement from his handler—Neal’s estrangement from him—was one element in Santiago’s perfect time table. 

He clenched his fists as Neal continued his story of how Santiago made a special trip to New York to apprehend him. How he kept him prisoner, kept interrogating him, kept trying to make up his mind as to Neal’s guilt or innocence in his brother’s death.

There was no torture—at least not physical. Not at first. Santiago’s men roughed Neal up, and put him into periods of isolation. But they didn’t do anything like Edgerton was rumored to have done to at least one suspect.

But then came the acid.

Neal’s voice went cold when he spoke of it. He’d been shaking when he talked about how Keller shot Bryan Santiago, but now his voice was emotionless.

“He wasn’t even questioning me.” Neal folded his hands on the dining room table and stared at them as if nothing else existed. “I think by then—I think he believed me about Bryan. But he still held me partly responsible. So he, ah—he destroyed my face.”

“Neal—”

“No, Peter, let me finish. He had the other guys hold me down while he let the acid drip. I think he figured that if I hadn’t fired that gun, then he was right to let me live. But if I had fired it—well, he destroyed my life as it was by, ah, making sure I wasn’t a pretty face anymore.” 

Peter sighed as everyone around the table shot each other looks. Some kind of communication passed between Don and Ian, but Peter wasn’t sure how to interpret it.

Robin broke the silence. “How did you escape?” 

Neal hesitated. Peter pushed a glass of water toward him. Neal looked at it, but then shook his head. “No, thank you. I, ah—I didn’t escape.”

Don blinked. “Santiago let you go?”

“Yes. But he said if I told my story to the FBI, that he would go after Peter and his wife Elizabeth, as well as Mozzie and even Satchmo.” He paused and favored Peter with a rueful smile. “But he didn’t think that would be a danger. He figured I was so enamored with my looks that I’d never let anyone who’d known me before catch sight of me now.”

Don didn’t seem to know what to make of that. He was probably unaware of just how much Neal had valued his looks. “All right.” The agent furrowed his brow. “Who are Mozzie and Satchmo?”

“Mozzie is . . . another CI,” Peter explained. “Satchmo is our dog—mine and Elizabeth’s dog, I mean.”

Ian leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “So Santiago never intended to kill you—unless he decided that you had killed his brother.”

Neal shrugged. “I couldn’t really believe that he let me go. I felt like he was just waiting to take me back. I kept looking over my shoulder, even when I was sure I had safely disappeared.”

“Letting you go fits with what we know about Santiago.” Agent Warner spoke up for the first time. “He sees himself as a man of honor. If he wasn’t sure you were responsible for his brother’s death, then he would stop short of killing you.”

Ian snorted. “Last time I checked, a man of honor doesn’t pour acid on some kid’s face.”

Peter felt his fingernails digging into his skin now. Edgerton’s callous tone was setting him off almost as much as what Santiago did to Neal. And the ‘kid’ grated on him. Neal was in his thirties. Edgerton was older—maybe even Peter’s age—but, unlike Peter, he hadn’t known Neal long enough to view him as a kid. Especially since the guy was Neal’s lover.

But Neal didn’t seem to mind. He flashed a quick smile at the sniper—and that was the first time he’d looked up from the table since he started talking about his ordeal.

Peter shook himself. Since Neal was, as Peter had just been reminding himself, an adult, he had the right to choose his own partner. And, arguably, he could do worse than an FBI agent. Whatever Edgerton’s reputation, Peter couldn’t fault him for anything other than that callous tone. Yet. He forced himself to refocus on the conversation at hand.

“But when Santiago released you, you didn’t run to the FBI,” Robin was saying. “Was that because of those threats?” 

Neal nodded and managed to look her in the eye. “Yes. Although—well, I did sort of go to the FBI.” He glanced at Ian again.

There was a surprising warmth in Edgerton’s eyes—any trace of callousness was gone. “Yeah. You did.”

“So, ah, what happens now?” Neal asked. He looked across at Don and Robin.

“Well, for the moment, you’re still not under arrest,” Don answered. “But we’re going to have to sort through the implications of that murder—some could consider you an accessory after the fact.”

“I think we can work out a deal,” Robin added. Her tone was even and she was giving Neal a measuring look. “We can lean on your past services to the Bureau—Peter here can’t stop raving about them—and on any useful information you can give us on Santiago.”

Neal’s expression was half apprehensive and half hopeful. “A deal that includes time in prison?”

“Not necessarily,” Don said. “We’re willing to see what we can do for you, Neal.”

“Thank you, but—um, should I ask why?”

Don grinned and nodded at Ian. “I want to see this one settled down.”

That broke the tension and surprised a laugh out of almost everyone at the table—even Peter. But Neal settling down with Edgerton? For good? Even if Ian was a more decent human being than his reputation suggested, it wouldn’t work. Neal needed passion and romance the way he needed oxygen, and Edgerton didn’t seem like the type. 

Robin, meanwhile, was now rolling her eyes as she elbowed her husband. “Neal, I want to make it clear that no deal we reach depends on you continuing a relationship with Ian—”

“I know.” Neal was still smiling. 

“Yeah,” Don agreed. “And you should start thinking about a lawyer. We might have to bring you in and formally interrogate you. But not tonight.” He paused to glance at Ian. “So you two are still together, right?” 

Ian shrugged. “We are as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Me too,” Neal said.

Don nodded. “All right, then. Ian, you have to stay off the Santiago case.”

“Understood.”

“But I want to get Neal to a safe house. You can organize that.” Don paused and turned to Peter. “You should be at that safe house too. And we can either make arrangements for your wife back east or have her escorted here.”

“I’ll make some calls so we can sort it out.”

“I think you should do that now.” Don turned back to Neal. “Like I said, you’re not under arrest—but you are back in our custody. So we, ah, have something for you.”

Peter had known this was coming. Judging by Neal’s resigned expression, he had guessed it was too.

“A new anklet?” Neal asked.

Don nodded. “Yeah. We’re going to need to put it on tonight. Let’s get that over with, and then we’ll see about that safe house.”

 

-###-

 

“I believe Caffrey.” Don took a sip of his beer and then shrugged. “He’s got no history of violence. This Matthew Keller, on the other hand—”

“Has quite the rap sheet,” Robin finished. “I think you’re right. I believe Caffrey too.”

They were standing out back by the koi pond. Some part of Don thought of this as Charlie’s spot now—especially since their Dad had commandeered the garage—but he enjoyed the stillness of it too.

Ian and Peter, meanwhile, were inside, working out the details of a safe house. Liz was hanging upstairs with Amita; Amita was showing off whatever geeky new computer game she was into. Neal, with anklet in place, had gone downstairs to check out the pool table. Don had urged Charlie to go keep him company. Which was probably the first time he’d encouraged his little brother to hang out with a known felon.

“So what kind of deal do you want for him, Don?” Robin stared into the pond, watching the fish. “Peter’s requesting a commutation—”

“But that’s not going to happen. I know.” He took another sip of beer. “We can keep him out of prison, right?”

“Yes. Especially if he has solid information for us about Santiago. We may be able to arrange for him to finish up the last year of his sentence according to the agreement he made with Burke: Neal stays on the anklet and consults for the Bureau.”

“And if he’s still with Ian? Is there any conflict of interest?”

“No. As long as he’s not under Ian’s authority.”

Don smirked.

Robin elbowed him. “I meant officially.” She paused and gave Don a sidelong glance. “What do you think Peter’s relationship with Neal is?”

“I think Peter regards him as a son. Why? Is that a conflict of interest?”

“Are you hoping it is?”

“No.”

She gave him a look.

“Well—maybe. Neal could just as easily serve out his sentence here, right? I mean, if Peter’s too close to him, we could use him. Between Ian and me, I think we can keep him in line.”

“He’s an expert in white collar crimes.”

“Believe me, we can use that expertise. And—who knows? If Neal’s here, maybe Ian will stick around. He’s getting too old for manhunts that take him all over the country. And I can use him here.”

“Ian has a black and white view on criminals.” She put her arm around his waist. “He’s, ah, not that understanding.”

“Yeah.” Don put his free arm around her shoulders. “He tends to think they’re scum.”

“I’m surprised that hasn’t been a problem for them.”

She had a point, but Don shook his head. “For the most part, he’s only that way about violent criminals. Someone like Neal—I mean, Ian won’t let him get away with much, but he won’t castigate him for past offenses either.”

Robin pulled him closer and turned her voice sultry. “So you want Neal and Ian both, huh?”

Don winked at her. “Hey, a guy can dream.”


	5. Chapter 5

Neal leaned over the pool table and took the break shot, pocketing two striped balls. Nice. Of course it didn’t matter if the balls were striped or solid, since he was only playing against himself.

He glanced up as he heard someone coming down the basement steps, and did his best to hide his disappointment as he realized that it was ‘the professor.’

“Hello, Professor Eppes.” Neal fixed a smile on his face. “Care to join me for some eight ball?”

“Sure.” He paused on the bottom step to survey the table. “You’re stripes?”

Neal nodded and took his next shot. He made a face; it missed by a hair.

Charlie took a pool stick from the rack and chalked it. He considered table again and then pocketed the three. 

“Nice. Your calculations help?”

“Sometimes. No amount of math can account for every miniscule bump on the surface of a table, which is where chaos theory comes in—” he broke off and grinned at Neal. “Sorry. I’m trying to learn not to do that.”

“I can probably follow you for a ways. Peter’s more the math geek, though.”

“And you’re what? A sort of renaissance geek?”

Neal couldn’t help smiling a little. “I like that. So you didn’t invite Ian to your wedding?” He might as well pump the professor for information.

Charlie cringed. “You heard us talking about that, huh?”

“Yes.” He might have been hugging Peter tight at the moment, but Neal was capable of multitasking. Despite Peter’s belief to the contrary. 

“Well, I did invite him to the wedding celebration Amita and I had in India—you know, for her family. And he came. I couldn’t believe it, but he did. He flew in with Don and my Dad. And then of course he was at Don’s wedding.”

Neal felt his stomach twist. Ian had gone to India for Charlie? He was even closer to this guy than Neal thought. This married guy, though, he reminded himself. Married with a baby on the way.

“And about the wedding,” Charlie continued. “I really didn’t know he was in LA.” He took his next shot, missing spectacularly. “Damn. Oh, and anyway, Colby was there. He was all right with Ian by then, but I didn’t want to push it.”

Neal didn’t want to admit that he had no idea who Colby was. An ex, from the sound of it. “How long did it take them to be all right with each other?”

Charlie looked thoughtful. “I think Colby was all right with Ian right after it all happened. I mean, I suppose he could have pressed charges—I’m not really clear on that. I just know that Don had a hell of a headache helping to make sure that Ian kept his badge. But Colby didn’t stand in the way. That was a big deal.”

Kept his badge? Colby was sounding less and less like an ex. “Why do you think Colby didn’t press charges?”

“Well, he and Ian were friends before it happened. And Colby’s record with the Bureau was also—um, complicated.” Charlie nodded at the table. “Your shot.” 

Neal leaned over the table for the best angle. “But they’re not friends now? They just sort of what—tolerate each other?”

“They don’t see each other much anymore since Colby transferred, so who knows? But even if he’s over it, I don’t think Colby wants to restart a friendship with the guy who held him hostage.”

Neal was in the middle of his shot—but Charlie’s words shocked him so much that he scratched. The cue ball followed the nine into the pocket. “Hostage?”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “You—you didn’t know about any of this, did you?”

“No.” Neal straightened up. “No, I was just fishing. Ian held this man hostage? A man—it sounds like this Colby is also an agent.”

“He is.” Charlie’s voice was dry. “Look, Ian had been wrongfully charged with murder, there were corrupt law officers involved—and they wanted Ian dead. And I don’t think—well, I think Don knew he wouldn’t really kill Colby.”

Neal’s brain stopped. Ian had held a brother agent hostage. That made what Neal did for Peter under similar circumstances look tame. Except that tame was too tame a word. Wow. How could Peter have been so angry with him when this kind of thing happened in the Bureau?

He shook himself. “So Ian was ruthless enough to take this Colby hostage—a friend and fellow agent.”

Charlie fidgeted with the chalk. “Yes.”

Neal was so relieved that he didn’t even bother to hide it. “So he really would be ruthless enough to put me behind bars again, if I was stupid enough to try something under his watch.”

“Ah—I would guess so, yes. He’s not sentimental.” Charlie put the chalk down. “You know, I’m not always good at reading people, but you seem to think that’s a good thing.”

Neal smiled again, wider this time. “It is.”

 

-###-

 

“Want a beer?”

Peter looked up from the table at Don, who had just walked back inside. “Sure.”

Don placed a cold one down on the table, took a bottle opener to it, and passed it over. Then he sat down opposite Peter with his own half-finished bottle. “So. You and Neal—are you too much like family to be his handler?”

Peter grunted. “You’re not wasting any time.”

“No. If Neal gets a deal that lets him serve out his sentence on anklet, will you fight to keep him in New York? Or will you let me become his handler here in LA?”

How was he supposed to answer that? He’d been asking himself the same question. He kept replaying that one conversation with Neal over and over: how he and Neal were family; how he couldn’t be Neal’s handler any longer.

He had gone back on that—and the results had nearly been disastrous.

Peter set his beer down and looked Don over. He liked the guy. His gut told him that Don Eppes was a decent human being—and meeting the guy's family had only reinforced that impression. He got the sense of someone who would be fair with Neal without giving him too much quarter. 

But he still wasn't convinced. "There's a big difference between white collar and violent crimes."

"Look, we wouldn’t use him undercover. We won't endanger him. Besides, do you really think Ian would let anything happen to him?"

Ian. That was the rub. "Edgerton's not known for his compassion for criminals. He is known for sending perps to the hospital—or the morgue."

"He's a sniper. And a man hunter."

"And when a particular perp was already in custody? In your interrogation room?"

Don's eyes flashed, but then he leaned back and sighed. "I don't know what you've heard, but let me set one thing straight. Whatever happened, it involved a life and death situation. And it was under my orders. If there's any blame, it goes to me."

Peter said nothing.

"Look, the thing about Ian—" Don broke off and smiled a little. "He doesn't have a lot of compassion for violent criminals, no. But a non-violent con artist and forger like Neal? He’d hardly be on his radar. Ian tends to divide the world into people who deserve no mercy, and people who need protection."

"And Neal's among the latter?"

"Yeah. But that doesn't mean he'll look the other way for Neal if Neal gets up to his old tricks. Ian will arrest him, regardless of their relationship. He’s cold that way—but your boy is smart enough to understand that."

"Yes." Peter took a long drink from the bottle. "He is." He set the bottle down, reaching a decision. "Can we get Ian in here? There are a few things you both should know."

 

-###-

 

“Can we break one of your rules tonight?” Neal shrugged off his shirt. “This morning, I mean?”

Ian glanced across the bedroom at Neal. It was Saturday morning now; they had just arrived at the safe house. Neither of them had slept yet. “What rule would that be?”

“The rule that says we can only curl up together on the couch; not on the bed when you’re trying to sleep.”

“What? That’s not a rule.”

“Yes, it is. Everyone has rules, Ian. Often subconscious rules that they don’t even realize they’re following. When you’re a con artist, you learn to read them . . . and to use them to give people what they want.”

Ian snorted. “You have to constantly read people and please them? Being a con artist sounds like a pain in the ass.”

Neal seemed to consider that. “It is, sometimes. And since you’re not, ah, much of a people-pleaser, I don’t think it will ever be your calling. But there are compensations.”

“Such as?”

He grinned. “Well, for one thing, I have a sexy, badass agent protecting me now.”

“Yeah, because you conned your way into my bed. But I told you I’d protect you even if you stop sleeping with me.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“I thought you were a nice straight boy?”

Neal shrugged. “I am. But apparently I’m a flexible straight boy. That’s another con artist trait: flexibility. Besides, I thought we were—you know. Sticking this out.”

Ian sat down on the bed. He didn’t bother hiding the affection in his eyes—or the seriousness. “I want to.”

“Good.” Neal looked relieved. “So can we curl up tonight? At least until we fall asleep and you subconsciously shove me over to the other side of the bed?”

“Do I really do that?”

“Yes.”

Ian smiled a little. “Come here.”

Neal didn’t wait for a second invitation. Soon he was on the bed too, nestling into Ian’s arms.

“So you really want to stick this out?”

“Yes, Ian. I really do.”

“Good.” Ian leaned back against the mound of pillows Neal had set up. Neal shifted with him. “But there are a few things you should know first.”

Neal glanced up at him. “Like the fact that you once held a fellow agent hostage?”

He had to give Neal credit—that caught him by surprise. “So you’ve heard about that, huh?”

“I, ah, sort of conned Charlie into revealing it. Don’t blame him.”

“Believe me, I don’t. Did he tell you the circumstances?”

“Yes. And I don’t mind, Ian. This is going to sound weird, but there’s a part of me that likes that you’re so ruthless.”

“Good. Because I also tortured a suspect.”

“Oh.” Neal was silent for a moment. “A not nice guy, I hope?”

“He was a spree killer. His partner was holding one of our agents hostage.”

“Another extreme circumstance.”

“And while I was in Afghanistan—well, I did a number of things that I’ll never share with you.”

“I kind of figured. You are a sniper.”

“Yeah.”

“Um, Ian?”

He started stroking Neal’s hair. “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Why what?”

Neal let out an exasperated sigh. “Why I like that you’re ruthless.”

“No.” 

“All right. I’ll bite. Why not?”

Ian shrugged. “I figure crazy hasn’t stopped being a reason.”

Neal pushed away a little and looked him in the eye. “You think I’m crazy?”

“A nice straight con artist who wants to stick it out with an FBI agent like me?” Ian cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I’d call that crazy.”

“You don’t—” Neal stopped and collapsed back down against him. “You know what? Never mind.”

“Neal, my past—I would have told you that stuff. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about right now. I want to talk about the future, so you know what you’re in for.”

That caught Neal’s attention. “Have they worked out a deal for me?”

“Not yet. But let’s assume that the best case scenario comes to pass: you stay on anklet and serve out the last year of your sentence consulting with the FBI. During that year—and afterward—there need to be some changes.”

“Like?”

“Peter, Don and I had a talk tonight. Peter wasn’t too specific, but he, ah, confirmed that you’ve gone off the res from time to time.”

“He probably said something about my ‘shenanigans’ too.”

“Yeah. And he mentioned other CIs you’re still friendly with. Like this Mozzie guy.”

“Ah.” Neal sighed and buried his face in the crook of Ian’s arm. “This conversation is going to be about Moz.” 

“Yeah. If you want to stick it out with me, Neal, no more consorting with other criminals.”

“Moz isn’t just a criminal. He’s—”

“I don’t care if he’s the fucking Mother Teresa of the underworld. Any crook is bad news for you. Letting you hang out with him—or any other member of your old gang—would be like letting a recovering heroin addict hang out with other users.”

He felt Neal’s whole body stiffen. The kid was furious. But if he really wanted to stay with Ian, he would have to understand that this was part of the deal.

“Peter still uses Mozzie as a CI, Ian. And how can he expect me not to use Moz as a source—” He broke off and pushed away again. “Wait. Wait—why was Peter talking to you and Don about this?”

Ian didn’t say anything. Neal was smart; he’d work it out quick enough.

Neal swallowed. “Peter said once—he said we were like family. But back when he said that, he—he wanted me to have a new handler. Someone who could arrest me if he had to.”

Again, Ian kept quiet.

“You would arrest me if I—if I started up with my old shenanigans.” Neal rolled back so that he was sitting up, but still facing Ian. “You wouldn’t get sentimental.”

“No. But the FBI will never assign you to me. Trust me on that.”

“So it will be Don.” The words were flat.

“He’s a good guy, Neal.”

“He focuses on violent crimes, though. Not white collar crimes.”

“He can still use your skills. But, like I said, things will be different. You won’t be dealing with other CIs. And you won’t ever be undercover.”

“I couldn’t be now anyway—not with a face this memorable.”

“Well, Don wouldn’t have risked you with violent criminals anyway.”

“So I’ll be stuck inside the FBI offices all day?”

“I’m sure you’ll get to see a crime scene now and then. Anyway, you’ll live. It’s only for a year. Although, if you do good work, Peter thinks Don ought to offer you a permanent position.”

Neal didn’t seem to absorb that. “What—what about us? Can I still live with you?”

“If this deal goes through, yes. But while I’m in Quantico—look, I don’t trust you to live on your own. Neither does Don.”

His eyebrows shot up in alarm. “They’ll put me back in prison?”

“No.” Ian sat up. “You’ll rent a room from Don and Robin—or from Charlie and Amita. Your choice.”

“So one couple or the other can babysit me?”

There was no point in denying that, so Ian just shrugged. “Look, it’ll only be while you’re still serving your sentence. And I’ll only be gone for a couple of months.”

“What happens when you’re out for weeks on a man hunt?”

“I won’t be." He almost couldn’t believe that he was saying these words, but this was something he was willing to do for Neal's sake. "Don’s been on my back about this anyway—he wants me to settle down here and work exclusively under him. And God knows I have the seniority to transfer wherever I want.”

Neal peered at him. “And you’re all right with that?”

So the kid wasn’t completely self-absorbed. Good to know. Still, he’d never let Neal know how much of a sacrifice this was. “Yeah.”

“You’re not going to resent me someday?”

Ian smiled. So maybe he had guessed. “No. Anyway, Don’s as much to blame as you are.” 

That seemed to satisfy him. “And once I’m off-anklet? How do you see that future, Ian?”

He chose his words carefully. “I see us still together. I hope you’ll like working with Don enough to keep it up. Maybe you two can arrange things so that you can come to Quantico with me while I have to teach. And by that time—well, you’ll be able to meet up with Peter and his wife while we’re there. She works in DC, right?”

“She was planning to, when I—back when everything happened.”

“Well, now that you’re safe, I think Peter will either transfer there or take some consulting job there. So you’d have plenty of time with your family.”

“Except for Moz.”

“Yeah.”

Neal took a deep breath. “I can understand that while I’m still serving my sentence—”

“Stop, Neal. This isn’t up for negotiation. You wanted to talk about my rules? Well this is one of them. If you want to go back to your old con-artist pals once you’re off anklet, then we’re over.”

“I see.” 

That wasn’t an agreement. “I mean it. And don’t see Mozzie on the sly.”

“You think I could?” Neal gave him a challenging look. 

“I know how smart you are. Way smarter than me—”

“What?” Neal looked offended. “That’s not true! We’re just dif—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ian snorted again. “You can give me that bullshit about different kinds of intelligences or whatever. But your mind is right up there with Charlie’s. More diverse and less focused, maybe—but you’re both geniuses.”

“And so you think I’ll—I’ll what? Send coded messages to Moz? Start using burner phones?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. You know you can find a way around this rule. But don’t. Not if you want us to make it as a couple.”

Neal just stared at him, not bothering to hide his anger and resentment.

“If you stay in touch with him, it’ll come out eventually, Neal—and then I’ll be gone. And if he tempted you into any crime, I’ll personally put both your asses in prison before I walk out the door.”

To Ian’s surprise, that drew a smile out of Neal. A small, sour smile—but a smile nonetheless. “I know. Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

Ian pulled Neal to him and kissed the top of his head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Neal woke up, the other side of the bed was empty. He snorted, unsurprised. Ian didn't sleep many hours at a time.

He stretched, rolled out of bed and then resisted the urge to open the room-darkening curtains. He turned on a light and glanced at the clock instead; it was three o'clock in the afternoon. Time to get dressed. Not that he had anything worth getting dressed in—he had jeans, t-shirts and hoodies, or Ian's khakis and button downs.

He sighed, thinking of his wardrobe at June's. Had she preserved it for him? Probably. But much good bespoke suits would do him in LA. From his brief experiences with the Eppes, he could already tell that the FBI offices on Wilshire were likely to be far more casual than their Manhattan counterparts. It would kill him a little, but he would have to adjust his style to the context of his new city.

He turned to face the bedroom mirror—but looked away almost immediately. Not in disgust, he told himself. He could face the scars now. No, it was more that he had just recognized the irony of his situation: how could he even think about disgracing those Devore suits with a face like his?

But he would still need clothes that were a cut above Ian’s current wardrobe. Ian would have to take him shopping periodically. Or at least supply him with a credit card while he earned slave wages serving out his sentence—that would be one of Neal's rules.

And speaking of rules, what to do about Mozzie? He conjured up a vision of the man, all paranoid outrage—bald head steaming and glasses a-quivering—at the thought of Neal with someone like Edgerton.

Neal couldn’t cut him out of his life. Moz had taken a bullet for him. Not intentionally, but that didn’t matter.

True, Moz had also dragged him into the Nazi treasure fiasco without giving him any warning. And he had constantly served as the imp on his shoulder, tempting him into one more con—or into running.

If Neal wanted to be fair, he could see Ian’s point.

But he didn’t want to be fair. He wanted to keep Ian. And he wanted to keep his friendship with Moz—who was almost as much family to him as Peter was—and he saw no reason why he couldn’t have both.

Except that Ian really would leave him if Mozzie was in the picture. Ian wouldn’t even look back—he’d just shrug his shoulders and move on.

Ian was right about one thing, though. He and Moz could find a way to keep in touch. And it would be a long time before Ian or Peter or Don discovered it—if they discovered it at all. 

But Ian really would be gone if they did.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Neal? It's Peter. You up?"

"Yeah. Come on in, Peter."

Peter stepped inside the room and then shut the door behind him. Then he stood still for a moment, looking Neal over. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. How's Elizabeth?"

"Relieved that you're all right." He smiled. "So relieved that she's not even angry she has to go into hiding."

"Is the Bureau escorting her out here?"

"No. We decided it'd be better—at least for now—for the Bureau to take her to a safe house near Alexandria." He took a seat on the bed. "She loves Alexandria. And when I've gone down to visit . . ."

Neal smiled. "It's growing on you?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not surprised. Beautiful town—lots of history." He paused. Peter looked—he looked tired. Like this last year had worn him down. Was that all because of Neal's disappearance? Or had the Bureau made Peter's life a misery too? "So, is this your way of saying that you're transferring to DC?"

"I'm retiring, Neal."

"I see." Neal swallowed. "Is that what you want?"

"Now that I know you're safe and that you'll be in good hands?"

“If they cut a deal with me.”

“Yeah. I’ll wait till that happens. But it’s looking good.”

Neal sat down next to him. “So if I'm allowed to serve out the last year of my sentence on anklet, you won't be my handler."

"You don't look surprised."

“I’m not. Ian and I talked last night.”

Peter fell silent. ‘You—you’re all right with him?”

“Yes.” Neal smiled. “The rumors about him being a psychopath are greatly exaggerated.” 

Peter was keeping his face scrupulously neutral. He really didn’t like Ian. He probably didn’t trust him either.

“I’m not afraid of him, Peter. He might arrest me, but he wouldn’t physically harm me—not unless I turned violent first.”

Peter didn’t say anything.

“And you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t think he’s going to abuse you, no. I think he’s a better man than I thought at first. But he doesn’t seem like your type.” 

Neal stared down at his hands. “Why not? I may not have dated other men before, but—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. He’s—Neal, I always wanted you to settle down. That didn’t mean I wanted you to settle.”

“I’m not set—” He stopped. Maybe it was better not to discuss this right now. And possibly not ever.

Peter seemed to feel the same, because he abruptly changed the subject. “Look, for what it’s worth, I think you’ll do well under Don Eppes.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll be okay. But there’s one thing I need you to talk to him about, Peter.”

“Mozzie?”

“Yes. And I need you to talk to Ian too. I need you to make him understand—”

“Neal, stop.”

Neal obeyed him. That was partly reflex, but partly—partly a realization. For a long moment, he just stared at Peter. “You asked them to do this, didn’t you? To keep me separated from Moz?”

“I recommended it.”

“He took a bullet for me, Peter. And he’s helped you—”

“Yes. And the best thing I can do for both of you is to keep you away from each other.” 

“Peter, I understand what I have now. I’m not going to risk it by getting involved in some crazy scheme of Mozzie’s—” He stopped again at Peter’s expression. It was the sort of look a veterinarian would give you to tell you that you should put your dog to sleep.

“Mozzie has grown increasingly close to little Theo,” Peter explained. “Even Diana considers him the kid’s uncle now.”

Neal had guessed that much. He wondered if Peter knew how it came about—how the formidable Special Agent Diana Berrigan had allowed a con artist to draw so close to her son. Probably not. But that didn’t matter. Neal could use this.

“So Mozzie has a reason to stick to the straight and narrow too! Peter, this is perfect. Mozzie and I can support each other—”

“Neal!”

Neal shut up again.

Peter took a deep breath. “Diana agrees with me too—that you and the little guy aren’t good for each other. And by little guy, I mean Moz, not Theo.”

“I know. I haven’t been gone that long.”

“So we spoke about it last night. If you contact Moz, or vice versa, she’ll refuse him access to Theo.”

“But—” Neal swallowed. His brain seemed to stop working. “You don’t understand—”

Peter clasped his shoulder. “I do. I know what Mozzie means to you. But if you want to be his friend, then let him be.” 

He paused. Once again Neal got the sense that he was worn to the bone. He didn’t want to do this to Neal, obviously—but he was forcing himself because he was misguided enough to think it was the right thing.

“I know the good you’ve done,” Peter continued. “But I also know that you’ve had more second chances than anyone deserves. And you must know that too, or you wouldn’t have chosen someone as ruthless as Edgerton to keep you in line.”

Neal should have protested—he should have spoken of his passion for Ian and how crazy in love with the man he was. But, as it turned out, he still couldn’t lie to Peter. He did love Ian. Somewhat. But not with the passion that had led him to obsess over Kate, or to romance Sara . . . or to get fooled by Rachel Turner. 

So that’s why Peter thought he was settling for Ian. But considering his track record, maybe a relationship based on something other than reckless passion was a smart move. 

“I actually chose Ian for protection first.” Neal managed a small, sour smile. “But you’re right. I want him to keep me from doing anything stupid.”

“Then trust him on this and leave Mozzie alone.” Peter released Neal’s shoulder and stood up. “I don’t want to see either of you in orange jump suits.”

And without another word, Peter turned and walked out the bedroom door.

 

-###-

 

Ian went up to the bedroom early that night, leaving Neal and Peter to their own devices. Those two had a year’s worth of catching up to do. And while Ian intended to do his utmost to get along with Peter, now was not the time to inflict his company on the man. 

After making sure the room was clear—you couldn’t be too careful—Ian turned to the dresser, intending to look for his favorite old t-shirt to sleep in. But he paused, noting that Neal had placed both their sketch books on top.

He picked up Neal’s and began turning the pages. If Neal had left it out like this, it obviously wasn’t private.

It started with sketches he had already seen: the ones he suspected Neal of dumbing down for his benefit. That suspicion proved correct. Neal had added a new sketch today. And it was far superior to anything Ian could pull off.

It was Neal’s own fucked up recreation of Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror—even more fucked up than the original. It wasn’t a faithful reproduction, and not only because of the change in medium. Yet Ian could see a master forger at work in the bones of the sketch. 

The most radical departure was the mirror. It didn’t show the twisted, nighttime, older reflection of the girl in Picasso’s piece. Instead, it was cracked, as if it couldn’t stand reflecting the girl.

Ian stared at the girl again. She had what arguably were acid scars on her face. 

Well, Ian had known that when Neal looked in the mirror, he only saw his scars. He didn’t realize that the mirror was a liar—that no mirror could reflect Neal’s irrepressible charm. 

Some part of Ian envied that charm. He was secure in his own ‘striking’ looks, and could even credit himself with a certain feral charisma. But the trick of putting people at ease, the way Neal had of making you believe that everything was right in the world, at least for the moment—hell, the way Neal could convince a hardened FBI sniper to take him in after knowing him for less than two days—that was a gift Ian would never possess. 

Which was just as well, since it probably wouldn’t be as valuable in his line of work.

He shook himself and then set the sketch book down. He wasn’t going to mention the Picasso reboot to Neal. There was no point; nothing Ian could say would make Neal see himself differently. So he would just keep doing what he was doing: openly admiring Neal’s baby blues, Neal’s smile—and yeah, Neal’s charm. And maybe, somewhere down the road, a little bit of that admiration would rub off.

 

-###- 

 

“Ian?”

“Yeah?” Ian had been just slipping into sleep, but he rolled over and moved closer to his lover. Huh, Neal was right. He did gravitate to the other side of the bed at night.

“How come you never came after me?”

“For the Bureau, you mean?” He rubbed his eyes and then slowly opened them, allowing them to adjust to the near darkness. “You wanted me to hunt you down?”

“Yeah. They sent Kyle Collins after me. He shot me in the leg to keep me from trying to escape.”

Ian snorted. “Yeah, I know his methods. They shouldn’t have wasted him on you. You’re mostly a pain in the ass, Neal. Not that you haven’t done some real financial damage to people in your time, but Collins should stick to violent criminals.”

“I know the FBI has wasted you on non-violent fugitive stock brokers.”

Damn. There was a challenging note in Neal’s voice. Ian couldn’t afford to let him get any ideas. 

That’s why, a second later, he was on top of Neal—with Neal turned over on his stomach, hands pulled behind his back and ready for cuffing.

“Neal,” Ian said, keeping his voice slow and measured, “don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to run just for the challenge of me chasing you. I don’t know what the hell you got up to under Burke—”

“Nothing like that!” Neal’s voice was tight now. “We—on some level, we enjoyed the cat and mouse game. But I never ran just to get him to chase me.”

“Good. Because I want to build a life with you, Caffrey. I don’t want to have to settle for conjugal visits while you’re in an orange jumpsuit.”

Somehow a smile crept into Neal’s voice. “Understood. Just answer me one thing: if I ran, would you be the one to come after me?”

“No.” Ian rolled off of him. “Burke and Collins would be welcome to you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next few days passed without incident, except for Don taking more information from Neal on Santiago. A more formal interrogation followed, but still no arrest—and then Don returned with the deal worked out by Robin. Neal would serve out the final year of his sentence in LA, under Don, as promised.

Neal, Ian and Peter celebrated that night with the best dinner they could manage, considering the food that came stocked in the house, and a decent bottle of wine. By some unspoken agreement, none of them mentioned Mozzie—and Neal didn’t think that was because of the other FBI agents present serving as extra protection.

After Peter went to bed, Ian and Neal found _**Bringing Up Baby**_ on cable. They spooned together on the couch, each equally amused by the screwball antics on the screen. This was good, Neal realized. He could easily picture nights like this for a long time to come.

Ian kissed the back of his head as the movie came to a close. “What are you thinking?”

“That I like this—and that I can see us working out.”

Ian grunted. “Had your doubts, huh?”

“Not really, no. I think we fit, even though you think of me as some kind of substitute for your nice straight professor—”

“You are not a substitute for Charlie. You’re a different kind of genius—and a lot more trouble.”

“—and I think of you,” Neal continued, ignoring the interruption, “as combination of a protector and a scary parole officer.”

“Huh. Well, once we get Santiago you won’t need a protector.”

“I’ll still want to feel safe.”

“But if we’re talking long term—eventually I’ll get old and lose my edge.”

Neal considered that. “Hopefully by then I’ll have outlived anyone who still has a grudge against me.” He nudged Ian. “But I’ll always need a scary parole officer to keep me out of that trouble you mentioned.”

Ian laughed. “Yeah, you probably will.”

They were both quiet for a moment, until Neal spoke up again. “You’re not going to compromise on Mozzie, are you?”

“No.” Ian pulled Neal more tightly against him. “You haven’t seen this BFF of yours in a year—and it will be another year before you’re off anklet and legally allowed to hang out with him again. You don’t think maybe you could both build another life by then?”

“From what Peter says, I think Moz already has.” He was torn between a twisted smile and a genuine one as he thought of Mozzie in the guise of a devoted uncle. “So if we don’t see each other—well, at least we’ll each know the other is okay.”

“Is that enough for you?”

Neal shifted, pulling Ian on top of him so that they were face to face. “I’m not sure.” He stared up at his lover. “But I think it might be.”

 

-###-

 

“Neal? Neal, wake up.”

Neal jumped a little. But then he sat up in bed, blinking at Ian.

“I’m going to turn on the lights—watch your eyes,” Ian warned.

“What’s going on?” Neal shut his eyes for a moment and then rubbed them open.

“They got Santiago.”

“He’s—he’s under arrest?”

“Better.” Ian looked supremely satisfied. “He chose to fight it out—he thought his men would be honorable enough to have his back. But they were smart enough to surrender, so he was the only casualty.”

“Casualty?”

“He’s dead, Neal. I’m sure Liz will have to hand in her gun for a bit and deal with desk duty, but from what Don told me the investigation should vindicate her.”

“Wait. Wait—he’s dead?”

“Yeah.” Ian took a seat next to him and kissed him on the forehead. “It’s over.”

Neal didn’t feel a shred of grief for Santiago, he realized. He should have. Both brothers were dead now, but all he felt was relief. “Thank God!” He grabbed on to Ian, pulling him tight.

“Shh,” Ian said, rubbing Neal’s back with one hand and neck with the other. “You’re fine.”

“I know. I know.” He pushed away a little and smiled up at his lover, wanting only to get out of this anonymous suburban house and back to Ian’s apartment—however sparse—in Westlake. “Let’s go home.”

 

-###-

 

Neal took a sip of his wine. “I thought giving up Mozzie would be the hardest thing.”

Peter leaned back in the chair and opened his beer. “But it’s not?”

“No, it’s not.”

Peter let Neal’s words hang there, knowing he would explain in his own good time. Meanwhile, this heart to heart over wine and beer felt like the old days—except that they were in the small, functional apartment Neal shared with Ian in LA, instead of the Manhattan mansion Neal used to call home.

“I miss Moz. Every day. But I know—I know he’s all right. And, anyway, I’m hoping that Ian will ease up on that restriction eventually.”

“You’re that optimistic, huh?”

Neal gave him a look. “Ian doesn’t win all our arguments. And Moz will learn how to work Diana." He ignored Peter's look of blatant disbelief. "Anyway, Moz isn’t the problem right now.”

“So what is?”

“The fact that I’m not allowed to stay on my own while Ian’s in Quantico.”

“Is this Don’s decision or Ian’s?”

“Both.” Neal gave Peter a thin smile. “I don’t mind that they don’t trust me—you never did.”

“But you minded that. How come you don’t care when it’s Ian? Or Don?”

“Different relationship. Ian is just—you know, Ian.”

He said that as if it explained everything. And, Peter supposed, it did.

“And Don is just my boss,” Neal continued. “He’s starting to feel like family too, but he’s not you.”

Peter managed a smile of his own. “You know, even if we couldn’t trust each other, we did learn to have faith in each other. Sometimes, at least.”

“We did.” Neal’s smile turned genuine. “Sometimes. But Ian will never have that kind of faith in me. And I don’t care. I can accept that.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“They gave me a choice. Stay with Don and Robin or stay with Charlie and his extended family over in Pasadena.” He paused for another sip of wine. “I love Don and Robin, but I refuse to spend two months as the third wheel with them. So I’ll have to ask Charlie—at least he has a wife, a child and his Dad already living with him. I can get lost in the crowd.”

“But?”

“But asking him will kill me. And it shouldn’t be necessary.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “You know, you have been known to get into some mischief when left to your own devices.”

“Not anymore. I’m not—I’m not chasing anything now, Peter. I lost Kate, I lost the U-Boat treasure, I lost my father and . . . well, you know what happened with Rebecca. But I’m—I’m okay now. I’m not reaching for something I can’t have. And no one from my past is interfering with my life.”

Peter sighed. It’s not like Don or Ian wanted to put him back in prison; they just wanted eyes on him while he was still on anklet. Next year, if everything went as planned, Neal’s anklet would be gone and he could go with Ian to Virginia . . . or go anywhere he wanted, for that matter.

But Neal wasn’t interested in next year; Peter understood that. He was still thinking in terms of immediate gratification. And, under the circumstances, maybe that was understandable. He was willing to bide his time when it came to Mozzie—biding his time on this was probably too much to ask.

“I’m not your handler any more, Neal. You’re going to have to talk to Don about this.”

“I know.” He took another sip of his wine. “But tell me something—do you agree with him?”

“Hey! I retired so I don’t have to answer questions like that.”

“Come on, Peter. What would you do?”

He took a swallow of his beer. “I’d let you stay on your own—”

“Thank you! I knew it.”

“—but I’d be watching your tracking data every second.”

Neal shrugged, still looking triumphant. “Don’s welcome to my tracking data. It’s not like I have any radius now anyway.”

 

-###-

 

“Don? Do you have a minute?”

Don glanced up from his desk and swallowed a smile. Neal said his name with the same inflection Charlie did—was that on purpose? Did he know that softened him up?

Probably.

Hell, definitely. But Don didn’t mind. He was starting to think of the ex-con as another younger brother.

“Come on in, Neal. What’s up?”

Neal settled into the chair opposite the desk. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Ian’s off to Quantico in two weeks.”

“Yes.” He had an idea of where this was going now.

“You both seem to think I need a babysitter while he’s gone.”

“We don’t want you staying alone. Not while you’re still on anklet.”

Caffrey looked him in the eye. “I haven’t given you a single reason for concern.”

“You haven’t,” Don agreed. “And I want to keep it that way.”

“You don’t want to reward my hard work instead?”

“Your reward is that you’re out of prison with a limited amount of freedom.” He paused. “And are you going to tell me you’ve never slipped your anklet while you were living alone?”

“No. I’m going to tell you that I have no reason to slip it now.”

“Yeah, well, forgive me for not taking chances. So do you want to stay with Robin and me, or with Charlie and the family?”

“You know, if I was determined to slip my anklet . . .”

“Our presence wouldn’t stop you. I know. But I’ll sleep better at night knowing you’ve got company.”

Neal leaned forward. “You know you’re not supposed to be so cozy with your CI, right? If I live with you or your family for two months, won’t it raise some eyebrows?”

“You’re more a consultant now than a criminal informant. You’re not informing on anyone or taking part in any undercover operations.”

“And the Bureau makes that distinction?”

“The Bureau has accepted your relationship with Ian—and your, ah, coziness with me and my brother. Everything’s out in the open and we’ve been careful to avoid any conflicts of interest.” He gave the kid a sympathetic shrug. “Sorry, Neal. No one’s going to blink.”

Neal looked offended.

Don was unmoved.

Well, he was a little moved—damn, Caffrey was good.

“Do you honestly think I’m just waiting for an opportunity to backslide?” Neal had the earnest-look down pat.

“No,” Don admitted. “But I’m not budging on this. Look, next year you’ll be done with your sentence and off anklet. If you’re still working for me—and I hope you’ll take a position as a civilian consultant—you can either go to Quantico with Ian during the fall and work remotely, or stay here on your own. And if I give you a hard time on that, you can tell me to go fuck myself.”

That won a smile from him. “Thanks. But Don, I can’t stay with you and Robin. You two don’t need a third wheel. But I can’t ask Charlie either.”

“Why not?”

Neal gave him a look.

Enlightenment struck. Neal was angry about being babysat, yes—but there was something else going on.

Now it was Don’s turn to roll his eyes. “Listen to me. Ian and Charlie are just friends. I mean, maybe Ian does have a thing for him, but it’s harmless.”

“I know they’re not having an affair—but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless.”

“In this case it does. Neal, you know Ian. If he had ever really wanted Charlie, he’d have gone after him—no matter how straight he thought Charlie was, or how much I might have objected.”

Neal opened his mouth, but shut it again before saying anything. For a long moment he just stared at Don. “That’s true,” he said slowly. “Wait, you would have objected?”

“If he wanted to date my little brother? I’d have made his life hell—at least for a while. But believe me, that wouldn’t have stopped him.”

“Charlie turning him down would have stopped him.”

“Yeah. But he never asked him—Charlie would have told me if he had. Especially back then. And Charlie would have told me if he ever wanted to ask Ian out, so don’t even go there.”

“But—”

“You know Charlie, Neal. He would have told me. Or I would have figured it out.”

Neal made a face. “You’re right.” He closed his eyes. “Two months.”

“Yeah. You’ll survive.”

Neal sighed. “I guess I’ll have to.”


	8. Chapter 8

Neal frowned as he sauntered back to his desk in the bull pen, so deep in thought that he almost didn’t notice Charlie hovering there. 

“Neal?”

He stopped just short of a collision. “Hi Charlie. What can I do for you?”

The professor took a deep breath as he leaned against the wall of Neal’s cubicle. “I know this is, ah, an awkward subject. Or at least I’m guessing it is. But I wanted to ask you—would you consider staying with us in Pasadena while Ian’s gone? Instead of with Don and Robin, I mean.”

“You want me there?” Neal didn’t bother disguising his surprise. Charlie was always friendly to him, but they weren’t quite friends yet. Granted, that was Neal’s fault. He was the one who kept a distance between them.

“Yes. Very much—but I have an ulterior motive.”

Neal smiled. He couldn’t help himself. It was cute to think of Charlie with an ulterior motive for anything. “All right. Let’s hear it.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to give you as much privacy as possible—if you’ll babysit one night a week. Just for a few hours. I mean, my father’s been great, but Amita and I could still use one night when we know we can go out together—”

Ah. Little Anil Isaac was a handful. “Okay.”

“Are you sure? I know it’s crazy at the house, but we do have the room and hopefully the baby won’t keep you up too late. And I can at least promise you good meals—not that you have to eat with us. I mean, not if you don’t want to. We’d be happy to have—”

Neal decided to have mercy on him. “Charlie, just close the deal. Don’t talk yourself out of a sale.”

Charlie grinned. “You’re right. Thank you. I’ll let you get back to work—but I’m really glad you’re coming.”

“Me too.” It was only a little bit of a lie, Neal realized. After all, acting as a babysitter was preferable to feeling like the one being babysat. 

The two months might be survivable after all.

 

-###-

 

“Do you know why they named him Anil Isaac?”

Ian leaned back against his pillows as he smiled at Neal via Skype. “One Hindu name and one Jewish name, right?”

“Yeah. But it turns out that Charlie hates the name Isaac. ”

“Yeah? Why’d he choose it?”

“His mom loved the name. Charlie was almost stuck with it, which meant that his Hebrew name would have been Yitzhak, which he despises even more.”

“But he had no problem sticking his son with it.”

“Nope. Not in the name of honoring his mother.”

Ian chuckled as he adjusted his tablet. “So am I overly optimistic, or are you enjoying your time at Chez Eppes?”

Neal grinned. “I’m enjoying it. That doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you for insisting that I be supervised.”

“I didn’t expect you to. You and Charlie okay?”

“Me and your other crush, you mean?”

“You are not a substitute for Charlie, Neal.”

“Oh, but I am. I’m more convinced of that than ever. I’m not sure why you never went after Charlie though—was he just too much the innocent for your taste?”

“You’re remarkably innocent yourself, considering your rap sheet.”

“What, you don’t think the innocent act is all part of my con?” Neal feigned a look of shock. “Ian, I rely on you to stay suspicious of me.”

“I will, don’t worry.” But there was this oddly innocent part of Neal. Probably less now than there once was, but it was still there. Maybe that’s why he was so good at making people feel that everything would be all right—some small part of him still believed that. “That’s why you’re at Charlie’s, remember? Because I don’t trust you on your own.”

“True.” He furrowed his brow. “It’s the scars, isn’t it? You went after someone with scars, rather than your naïve professor.”

“I didn’t ask you out because of the scars.”

“No, but you respect them, don’t you?”

Ian took a long moment to answer. “I respect what they signify: that you’re a survivor.”

Judging by the smirk on his face, that seemed to satisfy Neal. “I knew it. Well, that’s something I’ll always have over Charlie.”

“Charlie has had his own problems, Neal.”

“Yeah, I know. And watching him survive fatherhood is increasing my respect for him tenfold—”

A long, keening wail interrupted him. 

Ian grimaced. “Was that our nephew?”

“That was Anil Isaac, yes. I can’t wait till you get home. Charlie has decided that a ratio of four adults—me, Amita, himself and Alan—to one baby is just about right. If you stay away too much longer, I’ll never escape.”

“I thought you were only babysitting once a week?”

“I might have volunteered for more duties than that . . . .”

“So this is your own fault.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse you.”

“I’ll be back soon—and I’ll take my share of babysitting duties. I promise. Should I let you go?”

“Yeah.” Neal paused. “I love you, Ian. Come home soon.”

“I love you too.” The words came easily to his lips—they were nothing more than the truth. “I’ll see you in person next week. Night, sweetheart.”

He clicked off and set his tablet aside. He did love Neal. He had never been sure, until now, if that love was reciprocated. But apparently it was. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of love Neal usually associated with his romantic partners—but Ian liked to think it was the real thing regardless.

 

-###-

 

Peter couldn’t remember when his house in Alexandria was last empty. Technically, only he, Elizabeth and the aging Satchmo lived there—but somehow it was always full of people. It seemed everyone they knew had a reason to be in DC periodically.

At the moment, their guests included Neal, Ian and Charlie.

Neal had completed the last year of his sentence without any drama. Somehow the man who had chafed under his generous two mile Manhattan radius managed to settle down under the tight leash that Don and Ian kept him on in LA.

Peter had visited Neal often enough to know the exact confines of his radius. It extended only a few blocks from Ian’s Westlake apartment—and it was even smaller for the two months Neal had lived in Pasadena. 

But Neal accepted that leash, kept clear of Mozzie or any other former underworld associates and applied himself whole-heartedly to working cases. His dedication paid off: Don removed the anklet right on schedule. And, as promised, he offered Neal a consulting job that left him free to travel to Quantico with Ian for a couple of months each fall. It involved working from a distance, but Neal was fine with that. 

The couple had opted to stay in Alexandria for a couple of weeks this time around, despite the nightmarish traffic of Northern Virginia that Ian would have to contend with. Charlie Eppes, meanwhile, had flown in for some kind of ridiculously high-clearance government consultation. He had jumped at the chance to stay with the Burkes rather than in a hotel.

So the five of them—six, including Satchmo—were lounging in the living room, enjoying the historic fireplace even though it was a warm September evening.

“Ah, I have an announcement to make.” Neal’s voice was trembling a little. 

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. He had a pretty good idea of what the announcement was—and damn it, he would stop himself from raising any objections. He would not play the part of the outraged father, despite his lingering reservations about Ian.

Neal walked the line for the guy. That was the most important thing.

“Ian and I are getting married,” Neal continued. “Peter, Elizabeth—please say you’ll come out to LA for the wedding. And Charlie, I’d like you to be my best man.”

The room erupted into congratulations and mazel tovs. Peter felt a twinge of jealousy at Neal’s choice in a witness, but he pushed that aside.

“I’d love to be your best man.” Charlie grinned. “So I guess that means Ian chose Don, huh?”

“I wasn’t about to choose you.” Ian leaned back against the sofa and raised his wine glass. “If it were up to me, Professor, you wouldn’t even be invited to our wedding.”

“Oh, here we go.” Neal shook his head. 

Charlie sputtered. “Ian, you can’t still be holding a grudge about that!” 

“Tell you what.” Ian gave him a look. “We’ll hold a party in India. You can come to that.”

Peter grinned, unsure of whether Charlie’s outraged expression was fake or not.

“Okay, someone has to fill me in.” Elizabeth, who was perched on the arm of Peter’s easy chair, picked up the wine bottle from the coffee table and refreshed her glass. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t invite Ian to my wedding.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “It’s a long story.”

“But Ian went to their celebration in India—and none of that matters because we’re having Charlie at our wedding anyway,” Neal explained. “And, as we’ve just established, he’ll be my best man. And Peter—ah, I was hoping you’d, ah—”

“I’d what?” Neal was scaring him a bit now. What was he so nervous about?

“Be there in place of my father,” Neal finished in a rush.

Suddenly Neal’s choice of best man didn’t bother him at all. Peter felt his face flush. “I’d be honored.”

“And Elizabeth—you’re far too young to take the place of my mother, but how about you come as my sexy step mom?”

She laughed. “Ooh, still smooth, Neal Caffrey. I’d love to.”

“Wait,” Peter objected. “I’m too young to be—”

“Hush!” El elbowed him. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

That led to another round of laughter, and the discussion gradually changed to the practical matter of finding dates that would work for everyone involved in the wedding party. As for the guest list—well, it sounded like Neal was making a supreme effort, for Ian’s sake, to keep it under control. 

Neal had a ton of friends in LA now. Peter wasn’t surprised, but he was relieved. Ultimately, Neal’s scars hadn’t held him back. He had learned to make them work for him by using them to garner sympathy and to secure favors from people who wanted to prove that the scars didn’t bother them. 

So Neal was still manipulative—but in this case, Peter found that he couldn’t blame him. Apparently Ian didn’t either. The social whirl was, no doubt, a new experience for him, but he was holding up admirably. Right now he was looking resigned as Neal and El started talking about frighteningly high class venues for the wedding.

Peter followed El into the kitchen a while later, gladly leaving a tipsy discussion about whether Ian was allowed to claim a dance with Charlie at the wedding—which, Ian swore, was the only way he would forgive the professor for the lack of an invitation to his wedding. Charlie was game, but apparently the dance would only happen over Neal’s dead body—and Amita’s. (Neal called her to confirm this.)

Elizabeth was laughing as she put petit fours onto a tray. “It’s good to see Neal so happy.”

Peter leaned up against the counter. “He is, isn’t he? And he made it. He’s finally off-anklet. Legally, I mean.”

“Yes. And he’s settling down.” El rearranged two of the little desserts. “You’ve been a good father to him, Peter Burke. I’m glad he knows that.”

“Yeah. Despite screwing up every which way—”

“I have it on good authority that every parent screws up. But Neal made it. And he even chose a partner from the FBI. You must have done something right.”

“Yeah.” He tried to banish his misgivings about Edgerton. “Yeah.”

There was one petite four that wouldn’t cooperate with the arrangement. Elizabeth popped it in her mouth and took a moment to devour it. “Turns out that big bad Ian Edgerton wasn’t as scary as you thought.”

“Oh, he’s as scary as I thought—just possibly not as much of a psychopath as I thought.”

“I like him.” Her blue eyes—so much like Neal’s—lighted with mischief. “And he’s sexy as hell.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Got a thing for snipers now?”

“I’ve got a thing for that one.” She picked up the tray. “Charlie might not get a dance with him, but I’m going to make sure I do.”

She headed out of the kitchen as she spoke, casting a wicked smile over her shoulder. Peter laughed. He was about to follow her out when Neal slid past her and entered the kitchen. 

“Hey,” Neal said. “Can we talk for a second?”

“Sure.” Peter took a seat at the counter. “What’s up?”

Neal leaned against the counter on the other side. “Are you okay with this?”

He didn’t need to explain what ‘this’ was. Peter considered the question and then shrugged. “Do you need me to be?”

“No. But I’d like your blessing. Or at least an explanation of why you won’t give it.”

He chose his words carefully. “Neal, I think Ian’s a decent man. I was wrong to worry that he would hurt you.”

“But?”

“But—” How could Peter put this in words? “I still think you’re settling. I think you like Ian well enough—but that would never have been enough for you before.”

And that’s what he missed, Peter realized. He missed the side of Neal that always aimed for the moon. That was ridiculous, because it was the same side of Neal that drove Peter to near melt downs. It was that “cappuccino in the clouds” side of Neal, always dreaming impossible dreams and sometimes even pulling them off . . . without figuring in the cost.

Neal took a deep breath. “Peter, I—” He broke off and shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Ian is—look, we’re not crazy in love or anything. But we do love each other. It’s a different kind of love than I’m used to, but it’s real. And it’s solid.”

Peter stared at him, surprised and a little touched at the maturity in Neal’s voice. 

Had the acid attack brought that about? Had the whole Santiago ordeal scared the dreamer out of Neal? Or worse, did the scars make Neal believe that he was no longer worthy of finding that one soul mate he had always believed in?

Peter would never know. Neal wasn’t the type to discuss his pain or fears.

But maybe it wasn’t just the acid. Maybe no one who had gone through as much as Neal had in life could be expected to retain the crazy optimism the kid had once carried around with him. Hell, maybe that crazy optimism had been, to some extent, just another mask.

Neal would always wear masks. Peter was smart enough to understand that. But maybe this current one—with that touch of maturity—was a little more transparent than the others.

“And we’re good for each other, you know?” Neal was saying. “I put up with Ian’s need for solitude now and then, plus his crush on Charlie—”

Peter caught up to the conversation. “Unrequited, I assume.”

Neal grinned. “I’m not so sure about that. Let’s just say I’m glad the professor is safely married to Amita. Actually, Ian has a little crush on Don too, but he won’t admit to it. But I kind of do too, so I can’t say anything—” he stopped after noticing Peter’s expression. “Sorry. Too much information?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Right. Anyway, Ian puts up with my social life—minus Mozzie, but still. He puts with the scars too—”

“Puts up with the scars?” Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Puts up with them as in that they confirm for him that I’m a survivor,” Neal clarified. “And he thinks—you know. He thinks I’m attractive anyway.”

You are, Peter wanted to say. But it would sound strange coming from him.

“And he keeps me in line.” Neal paused. “He would arrest me, if I deserved it. But I’ve still—I’ve told him a lot about my past.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He just looked at Neal expectantly.

“I, uh, I told him what I did to keep you from going to trial for what my father did. My biological father, I mean. I consider you my real one.” 

“Neal, I—”

“It’s all right. He understands about that. And he thinks I was an idiot to put myself under Hagen’s thumb. And I’m sure he would have handled things differently—”

“By taking someone hostage?”

“Ah.” Neal blushed. “You know about that thing with Colby, huh?”

“The whole Bureau knows about that.”

“Well, yeah. But I’m not going to judge him—and he doesn’t judge me. Not about something like that, anyway. But, barring some new extreme circumstance, he won’t let me get away with any crime. And I—I need that.”

Peter could guess what it cost Neal to admit that to him. So he didn’t dwell on it. He managed another nod instead and looked him in the eye. “Are you happy with him?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I need to know.” He smiled, trying to keep his voice from quivering with too much emotion. “I’m proud of you, Neal. Look at you—off anklet, working for the Bureau by choice, and ready to settle down.” 

Really settle down—maybe not just settle after all.

“Yeah.” Neal was still smiling. “Who’d have thunk?”

Peter grinned as he stood up and started walking back toward the living room, nodding at Neal to join him. “I guess all that’s left is to ask if you two are going to give us grandchildren.”

Neal laughed. “I’m not sure. It’s not off the table—”

They walked in together, rejoining the crowd. Neal crossed the room, resuming his place on the couch next to Ian. Peter shook his head a little at the pair of them . . . and then sank back into his easy chair without bothering to wipe the proud smirk off his face.

 

-The End-


End file.
